


A Fine and Private Place

by Marzipan77



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), NCIS
Genre: AU, Episode Related, Episode: s02e02 P911, Episode: s02e05 Aftermath, Episode: s04e02 Escaped, Episode: s04e03 Singled Out, Federal regulations, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Psychological Trauma, real life consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-01-29 09:18:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 90,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzipan77/pseuds/Marzipan77
Summary: Tony DiNozzo and Aaron Hotchner have been friends since the Kyle Boone case. Now that Gibbs is back, at least physically, Tony's life has become a series of impossible choices. Is his director really accepting Gibbs' instant reinstatement with no questions asked? Is the offer of Rota, Spain real or a feint to keep Tony working undercover with Benoit? He needs Hotch's help to figure it all out. But Hotch is dealing with his own psychologically damaged teammate, Elle Greenaway. And his own less than helpful mentor, Jason Gideon, is throwing up roadblocks. Grief, guilt, and trauma recovery are all tangled up with government red tape and Tony's head is spinning. Hopefully, Hotch and Tony can join forces and get their teams back on solid ground.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title refers to 'His Coy Mistress' by Andrew Marvell. The entire quote is "The grave's a fine and private place but none, I think, do there embrace." The poem's speaker is trying to get his girlfriend to, um, see things his way. Fantasy author Peter S. Beagle used the phrase as the title of his book about a man living in a cemetery. The appropriateness of this title to this work of fiction will become apparent as the story unfolds.
> 
> I do not own any characters or dialogue from either show, only my limited OCs. I am bringing them together in October, 2006, when Gibbs returns from Mexico and Elle returns from her injury. Nifty timing.

Aaron worked slowly and methodically, setting down the bore brush to one side and checking the barrel with his penlight to ensure that he'd removed all the debris built up after his shooting session. Across the work-table, Reid mirrored his movements, frowning down at his own weapon. Instead of the relaxing, nearly meditative state that cleaning his weapons instilled in Hotch, Reid seemed more on-edge now than he had been on the range moments ago. He'd done well – easily earning his qualification as he had done consistently since the episode last year when the two had been taken hostage by the LDSK. One real-life shooting had been enough to get Spencer over his aversion to firearms and allow the young man to get his head in the right place. If shooting accurately was what stood between Spencer's team and certain death at an unsub's hands, the young man was eager to become proficient.

Exchanging the bore with a clean patch, Hotch watched Spencer with quick glances. His hands were steady, moving easily through the motions of oiling his patch and sliding it up and down the barrel, but his jaw was tense and his eyes shadowed. Spencer was a prodigy, a genius, and his contributions had proven his place on this team over and over again. Between Spencer's brain and Gideon's quiet, intense persistence, he'd won over everyone from the FBI administration to hard-headed physical types like Derek Morgan. They'd all learned a lot during Reid's first year working with the profiling team – and so had the still very young man sitting across from him. It remained to be seen whether the evils the team witnessed – the darkness of the abyss of human depravity – would make just as much of an impression on Spencer.

Lately, Hotch had taken a more active role in Spencer's development. He managed to stifle a snort. It wasn't as if he'd had a choice. Jason Gideon might be a gifted profiler and an asset to the team, but he was also a moody, arrogant man who would passive-aggressive his way out of any duties he didn't find personally fulfilling. Like making sure his student passed his firearms proficiency. Or went home to eat and sleep at reasonable hours. Or was brought up to date on hand-to-hand and computer techniques. After Hotch had a few extremely pointed talks with Morgan, the man had toned down the teasing and had begun to show Spencer self-defense moves that no one wearing a badge should be without. Garcia was more than happy to show off both her compassion and her computer savvy. "Imagine," she'd said to Aaron, "the guy doesn't even know how to use a search engine!"

Spencer's eagerness to learn – anything – and his need to prove himself made him the perfect student – something Gideon had figured out years ago, apparently. Taking the young man aside for these sessions wasn't exactly a hardship. Often, Hotch learned a little bit, too. Random facts about firearms. History lessons. And, if he was particularly lucky, a tiny tidbit about Spencer himself. More than the bland facts that appeared in the young agent's file, more than his mother's illness or his father's abandonment. More than his IQ and advanced degrees. Right now, for instance, Hotch could tell that Spencer was upset by the intensity of the young man's concentration and the downturned corners of his mouth. He had intended to let Spencer lead, to wait him out and listen, but that clearly wasn't working. Not this time.

"What's on your mind?" Aaron began, keeping his gaze on his weapon. He didn't want Spencer to feel defensive.

A few moments later Reid answered. "Our last case – finding the little boy who was being auctioned off – it was different. I mean, we've profiled pedophiles before, and the research is startling in its cohesiveness. Did you know that all of the studies reveal the same results, even taking into account age, cultural norms, childhood experiences, education, social and financial status – preferential pedophiles fall into static, predictable lines every time?" Reid's long-fingered hands sketched columns and rows in the air over the work table. "If you laid out the backgrounds of Haydon Rawlings, Kevin's father, and Dustin's abductor you would find completely different vital statistics, and yet their psychological profiles are nearly identical."

"Reid –"

"Gideon has me going over the case files for the Crimes Against Children division, the cases that have gone cold. I guess he's hoping that my reading and comprehension speed might help put some tiny details together. Since Dustin's abductor isn't talking, there might be a chance to rattle him if I can find other cases that he could have had a hand in. Especially infant abductions in and around the time of Dustin's."

Hotch frowned, looking at the bowed head of the other agent. That sounded – horrible. It was bad enough that many agents were required to study those files, including him, and see physical proof of these men's evil, but Hotch didn't have a complete and inerasable memory of every single word, a picture of every horrifying act done to those children seared into his mind. "Reid, you don't have to –"

"If I can help one child be recovered –"

"Reid." The Special Agent Hotchner voice usually did it.

Yep. Big brown eyes blinked at him.

"There's no reason for you to study each of SSA Cole's files. Unless she's asked you to help her with something specific."

Reid's eyebrows crooked for a second. "I don't know. I don't think Gideon has talked to her – he just requisitioned the files from records and sent them to me with a note attached."  
Hotch forced himself not to change expression or let Reid get a hint of his disapproval. Spencer practically worshipped the ground Gideon walked on, his brilliant mind seeming to overlook the older man's fairly obvious faults. Aaron was going to have to tread lightly. "It's commendable that you – and Jason – are trying to help. But I'd like you to put that on the back-burner for the moment." When Reid opened his mouth to interrupt, Hotch held up one hand. "Yes, it is important and we should do everything we can for these children and their families, but we all have our jobs. And while we were able to help out Agent Cole on this particular case, we need to focus on our own caseload."

"I haven't been neglecting our cases," Spencer assured him. "We don't have a current case – not something we're pursuing at the moment."

"I know that. I was not implying that you are neglecting anything except your own mental – and maybe physical – health. Our job is difficult as it is; gathering in extra cases from around the bureau on the off chance that we can spot a single stray clue is not part of it."

The young man's frown cut deeper across his forehead. "I understand. On the other hand, I have the ability to read and comprehend quickly, to see patterns. Why not use that?"  
"Because you're not a tool, Spencer." Aaron couldn't help the sting in his voice. "You are not a brain we take out of a drawer and use like we would a stapler or a weapon or even a computer. You are an agent, and a human being. Please let us treat you like that."

The young man's mouth dropped open. Aaron could almost see the wheels of his mind churning and churning, trying to process that statement. To find the correct mental slot to file it in. Reid's head dropped and he frowned down at his weapon.

"I'm getting better at compartmentalizing." His voice was just above a whisper.

Aaron nodded. "And that's good. But inundating your mind with these files, these images of children while knowing what could be happening to them – even jaded agents would have trouble with it. And, believe it or not, Gideon should not be assigning you cases from other departments without their approval. Or mine."

Head nodding, Reid glanced up for a moment.

"But I don't think it's those cases that are what's bothering you. Can you tell me what is?" Aaron tried again.

Spencer's eyes cut to the left. Aaron pretended not to notice. It was a tell, one that the young agent would need to discipline out of himself if he was going to have any aptitude at interrogation. Aaron discarded the dirty pad and exchanged it for a clean one while Spencer decided whether or not to answer his question truthfully.

"I know we have an agreement not to profile each other," Reid began, his voice low and thready. "But sometimes –"

"Sometimes it's an impossible agreement to keep." Aaron flashed a smile.

"It is," Reid agreed quickly. "I've talked about it with Gideon, but he told me she just needs time. And, honestly? I don't think more time is going to help."

Aaron's hands stilled. "You're talking about Elle."

Spencer leaned forward. "There's something wrong. She's – she's different. I know, I know," he hurried on, "being injured that way, the shock of it is not something you can throw off easily. But I think there's something else going on. I mean, Elle's always been brusque and a little intolerant of, well, me, but she's never walked right over me before. Or tried to use me as an excuse for her own behavior like she did on this case." He swallowed, fingers twitching on the table. "I don't think she should be in the field."

Letting out a long, slow breath, Aaron felt the icy knot that had been tightening behind his breastbone since Elle's return give way. Reid was right. And Aaron knew it. Elle had passed Physical Training with ease, but she'd been putting off her psych eval. And Aaron had let her.

"It's too soon," Spencer continued. "And I know this is really none of my business, but I wanted someone to know. I've asked her if she wants to talk, but," his self-effacing shrug and lowered gaze told Aaron how Elle's rejection must have felt, "well, I don't think she sees me as much of a confidant. Or friend, even. Maybe if someone else, someone older, who she respected –"

"I'm going to stop you there." Aaron's voice was gentle. "First, I'm sorry that anyone on this team has ever made you feel disrespected. You've more than earned your place here – and not just as Gideon's student but on your own merit." He waited long enough for Spencer to nod although they both knew the young man was not convinced. "Second, I'm glad you brought this up. It actually coincides with my own feelings on the matter. And, no, I agree that time is not the answer here. Maybe decades ago this kind of personality change after a personal trauma might have been overlooked or ignored, but the bureau isn't quite as backwards on these matters as it used to be. We've gotten a lot better at caring for our agents, especially since the early days with Gideon and Rossi sitting alone in the basement." Hotch had no trouble imagining Gideon's empty gaze and careless hand-waving at Spencer's concern. "Elle needs help. And now that the issue has been addressed by another agent, it will be taken seriously."

"I don't want to get her in trouble," Reid added, fear for his co-worker clear behind his eyes. 

"This isn't trouble – this is care. It's trouble that we're trying to avoid." Aaron gestured at the weapons on the table between this. "Let's finish this up and then I'll see what I can do. We're on mandatory one week stand-down after the CAC case, so we have some time."

When Spencer made no move to finish cleaning his weapon, Aaron looked up, one eyebrow raised. "Can you trust me to handle this, Spencer?"

"Yes." The answer was immediate. "I trust you. Just – thank you. For listening."

"Huh." Another face popped up in Aaron's mind's eye. "You remind me of a friend of mine – he's always amazed when I sit quietly and listen to his ramblings about cases or his co-workers or movies, anything really. It makes me think you – and he – need to have higher standards for your friends if I'm the best listener you've met lately."

Reid smiled. "I think I'd like to meet this friend of yours."

Head tilted sideways, Aaron considered. "You two in the same room. I think you might each meet your match." He pointed a stern finger at Reid's weapon. "Now. Finish."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there's an OC in this chapter, simply because I needed a way to insert the realities of working for a government agency into the mix. She's not a big part of this story, so no worries. 'Janet' works better for me than canon Delores Bromstead who is, frankly, more a caricature than a character. Think of her as a Napoleonic power-monger in the red-tape category. Although I made up the form designations, they exist. So many forms.

Janet raised both eyebrows at Cynthia, the director's secretary, and, at her nod, knocked and entered Director Shepard's office. The first female director of NCIS, Jennifer Shepard had been an idol of many of the women hoping to make their way up on the administration flow chart of the federal agency. That initial regard, the 'honeymoon period' might be over for many of them, but Janet had faith that Shepard would learn, that she would stop fluttering her eyelashes at her agents and actually begin to grow into her power and responsibilities. At least the director had moth-balled the low-cut dresses.

"Mrs. Adams." Shepard closed her laptop and looked up with a sharp smile. "I appreciate you coming up here."

"No problem at all, Director." Janet sat at the director's nod, the employee files Shepard had requested on her lap. "What can I do for you?"

Shepard leaned forward, hands folded on her desk. "We have some Changes in Agent Status forms to file concerning the MCRT."

_Again?_ Janet frowned. In the past four months, the paperwork for the MCRT alone had given HR enough headaches to keep the Tylenol people in business for a century. It wasn't just the CAS forms, it was R-23's and -223's for an on-again, off-again retirement, transfer notice TN-77L and then CAS-15 for attorney-turned-probationary-agent Lee, modification of David's Foreign National Liaison Officer CLEMs to include her change of address and reporting duties, McGee's EI-88's to disclose his extra income – not to mention the JAG-4010 that still hadn't been returned for final approval of the "Deep Six" series' use of not-quite classified materials. And all that was without the paperwork deluge that was Agent DiNozzo.

Shepard seemed to sense her distress.

"You'll be happy to know that, after these last few forms, the MCRT should be off the Human Resources radar for quite a while." The director opened her hands, her smile wide, as if she was giving Janet a present.

Uh-huh.

"Yes, ma'am," is what Janet actually said out loud. She did not sigh; she did not slump. She was a professional, after all. The headache Director Shepard's little meetings induced could pound away behind her eyes but she was not going to let it show. Not to mention that this was Tony and Tim Shepard was talking about – agents she had seen beaten down by Gibbs' departure, by the sneers and sarcasm of other agents and technicians, and the misfeasance of Shepard's ham-handed administration. She would do right by these men.

She remembered Tony's first day at NCIS – she remembered her supervisor's less than helpful attitude and Tony's haunted eyes and bright, false smile as Delores Bromstead slapped thick packets of information together. Janet had stepped in with a diplomatic shrug and a comment about Bromstead being much too busy for this and had helped Gibbs' new agent through the piles of paperwork needed to become a government employee. Janet remembered one particular moment when the young man thought she'd turned away and his cocky mask had dropped off, revealing a man very much alone in this new world. 

Janet had steered newly minted Agent DiNozzo towards an empty meeting room and then walked him through the forms; federal regulations, government pay scales, rights and responsibilities and the few perks his job came with. She'd suggested a few neighborhoods in the DC metro area that were both reasonably priced and not overrun with crime and drugs. Swallowing hard, Janet remembered how profoundly grateful Tony had seemed to find a helping hand. Who knew that a 'paperwork guru' and an armed federal agent could become friends?

Tim had been a tougher nut to crack. McGee had been one of those odd ducks who arrived on the first day of his permanent assignment with all of the correct forms neatly filled in with tight block lettering, his chin high and the chip on his shoulder nailed there with railroad spikes. It was only after Agent Todd's death that Janet had seen the man's thick barriers shredded as Tony had led him to Janet with an arm around his shoulder, shoving a hot drink into Tim's hand. Janet knew shock when she saw it, her early training as a Navy medic taking over. Since then Tim smiled at her in the hallways, helped her brush the snow off of her car in the winter, and held an umbrella over her head during the many DC downpours.

With Shepard's thin smile and an ill-fitting mask of compassion yanked on over her impatience, Janet could only wonder what fresh hell this would be.

"Senior Agent Gibbs has returned from his hiatus, so you'll be relieved to know that his vacation and sick pay can be ended as of midnight last night and his status returned to active."

Janet nodded. "Very well, ma'am. Do you have the PE and PT forms now or should I be on the lookout for them in my inbox?"

The director bit off a sigh. So much for her professionalism. "I've reinstated Agent Gibbs. We'll waive the PE and PT forms in this instance since it hasn't been a year since his last set of evaluations."

"Waive the – ma'am?" Janet squinted at the woman across the desk. "On his last case, Agent Gibbs was severely injured, both physically and psychologically. Extensive cranial trauma including amnesia if I'm remembering correctly. And he checked himself out of the hospital AMA which only compounds the problem." Janet's headache was thumping along with her racing heart. "According to procedure, he cannot resume his status as a field agent without a Psychological Evaluation and Physical Training Proficiency."

"As I said, it has not been a year since –"

"I am so sorry, Director," Janet interrupted, "perhaps you haven't run into this scenario since you took over the office, but any agent returning from injuries must be evaluated before reclaiming his weapon and being sent into the field." Janet tried to curb her frustration in the face of Shepard's. She really tried. But, seriously, sometimes she wondered if Jennifer Shepard had an ounce of sense. "We would lose our insurance coverage if we tried to side-step those regulations." Every single agent returning from a case-related injury had to be evaluated. The director couldn't claim ignorance of that.

Shepard tapped her fingers on her desk, her jaw working furiously. "I'll – discuss it with Agent Gibbs. In the meantime, please process the paperwork and we'll simply add those forms to the files when they are available."

Janet wanted to say no, that's not how it worked. That it wasn't going to happen that way. But HR had been dealing with this woman and the way she liked to dig her spiked heels straight through the paperwork the government required from a federal law enforcement agency for over a year. It was as if Shepard thought of herself as Alice's Red Queen who could order sixteen anti-regulatory things before breakfast and hand-wave the consequences. Unfortunately for her, the title of Director of NCIS came with neither a crown nor a flock of toadies to 'yes ma'am' her most ridiculous wishes – it was a pause on the top rung of a bureaucratic ladder. But whatever Janet said now would be dismissed, ignored, swept away with a grim order and a sharp glance. Very well then, as much as Shepard refused to acknowledge it, there were higher powers - much higher powers than she. And Janet had them on speed-dial.

"Very well, Director. I'll send Agent Gibbs a request for a meeting to discuss his remaining leave time, sick time, and retirement benefits. I'd appreciate some help – you know how hard it is to get Agent Gibbs to respond to any emails or messages."

Shepard's eyebrows lifted. "Is a meeting strictly necessary? I'd be happy to hand over any forms he needs to see."

Oh, not this again. Shepard tended to stand between Agent Gibbs and anyone else in the building who needed to meet with him for any reason. Security. Payroll. HR. IA. She wondered if the woman thought she was protecting Janet and the others from Gibbs' infamous temper. Hilarious. As if Janet hadn't raised three boys herself and endured the blistering curses of Navy captains when their men were bleeding and wounded in her infirmary. Janet flashed the director an empty smile. "Thank you, ma'am, but this is something I'm required to discuss with the agent himself to make sure he understands the pay and benefits he's lost since putting in for his retirement and then asking that we reverse that process and allow him to take his deferred vacation and sick time."

"Why should he have lost anything?" Shepard demanded.

"There are specific regulations relating to accessing retirement benefits, ma'am. And Agent Gibbs' indecision back in May resulted in the assessment of some penalties." Janet shrugged. "There's nothing I can do about it now." Nothing Shepard could do about it either. They both knew that the 'indecision' had nothing to do with Gibbs and everything to do with the woman sitting across the desk from her. Agent Gibbs had left NCIS, brushing off his responsibilities, his team, and his future. No one had a doubt that the man would regret his choices, but it was not Janet's – or Jennifer Shepard's – place to take back his resignation. To try to undo his retirement. But, a week after the agent's abrupt departure, two days after Janet had filed his paperwork, she'd received a neatly typed letter requesting his retirement be changed to a leave of absence. Signed and everything. Uh huh.

Shepard seemed to be mulling it over, eyes narrowed. "All right," she finally admitted, "I'll discuss it with Jethro – Agent Gibbs – and set up a meeting between the three of us."

"If that's Agent Gibbs' wish, that's fine, ma'am." And probably the best Janet could do. Apparently the most feared man in the bullpen needed Jennifer Shepard to hold his hand when discussing finances. Janet shook her head. No. She shouldn't blame Gibbs for the director's coddling. The man was going to be pissed when he found out how Shepard had attempted an end-run around HR.

"Beyond that," Shepard set the palms of her hands on the desk as if she would rise and end the meeting, "you'll need to file the appropriate Change of Status forms for Agents DiNozzo and McGee and then that should be –"

"Ma'am?" Janet interrupted. "What Change of Status?" Holy Hannah, had the two resigned? With Gibbs abrupt return and Shepard's immediate reinstatement of the man in his previous position, that wouldn't surprise Janet. DiNozzo and McGee were good men and good agents – the slap in the face of Shepard's attitude and Gibbs' return might just have provoked that knee-jerk reaction. Unless Shepard had transferred them? Given DiNozzo his own team? Moved the two of them laterally into another office?

Hell, they hadn't gotten injured, had they? 

Her gut churning, Janet mentally flagged all the teams that were in need of new leadership. Retiring team leads. Expanding offices. Afloat and International positions. Please, let it be that, Janet sent a quick prayer up towards the ceiling. She didn't want to have to file IOD reports for these boys or visit them in the hospital.

Shepard stopped mid-rise. "I'd thought it would be obvious. Since Agent Gibbs is back, Agent DiNozzo will return to his SFA position and his G11 status and Agent McGee to G7."

Mind spinning in dark circles, Janet opened her mouth, closed it, reconsidering, and then opened it again. No. This couldn't – the agents must have – but that didn't make – 

"Ma'am." Janet shook off her disappointment and held out her hand. "Do you have the DD-77s? The Dereliction of Duty forms to justify the loss of position and salary?"

"The what?" Shepard sat back in her chair.

"Well, we can't process their demotions without the proper documentation listing their mistakes, the appropriate warnings and write-ups, and their signatures on the DD-77s. Their files have to include the cases they mishandled, and the protocols broken." She stared into Shepard's blinking eyes. 

"No," the director began, "I don't think you understand. Agents DiNozzo and McGee have performed their duties well, but Agent Gibbs is back now, so we just need to adjust the paperwork to reflect the MCRT as it stood before his –"

"Retirement, ma'am?" Janet winced at the bitterness coming through loud and clear in her voice. "I apologize, Director, but I can't do that. As I told you four months ago when Agent Gibbs left, there are no such things as 'do-overs' in government employment levels."

She watched the flush rise from the director's neck up to her cheeks, her hands disappearing into her lap to hide the way they twisted. "Mrs. Adams, all I need you to do is to work the red tape so that the MCRT will reflect the levels and statuses of the agents four months ago."

"And, as I told you in May, Director Shepard, if you'd have listed the promotions for Agents DiNozzo and McGee as Temporary Details, this would have been much simpler. The two agents would have done just what you've asked and reverted back to their previous levels once their Details as Senior Agent and SFA were completed."

"And as I told you, Mrs. Adams," Shepard seethed, "that would have meant appointing a Special-Agent-in-Charge assigned to the MCRT to oversee Agent McGee's training in the SFA position as well as Probationary Agent Lee while Agent DiNozzo transitioned."

Which was exactly what the director should have done. What any good boss would have done. An SAC would have taken some of the workload of teaching from Tony while he led the team. Promoting Tony and then shoving an untrained, unprepared SFA on him as well as a lawyer-turned-probie who was greener than moldy cheese was unconscionable. 

"Again, the SAC would have been 'detailed' to assist, ma'am," Janet explained yet again. "A temporary assignment reverting back to their pay and rank level when the appropriate time had passed."

If looks could kill. "Thank you, Mrs. Adams. As I've repeated previously, it was not an appropriate time to introduce strangers into the MCRT dynamic."

Yeah, right, Janet fumed silently. None of this was about the MCRT dynamic. This was about control. Shepard's control. An SAC would have called shenanigans as soon as he or she had stepped into the bullpen. Shepard hadn't wanted oversight – not of the MCRT, not of her own decisions, and certainly not of whatever off-the-books op she'd tangled Tony up in.

Janet had processed Tony's overtime, the near 24/7 workload, the vague duties checked off on his time sheets as "other duties as assigned," all signed off by Shepard personally. She'd passed on the forms the director was forced to file again and again as David – a foreign national with no evidence processing or FLETC training - worked active cases that were expected to pass JAG review. No SAC Shepard detailed to the MCRT would have accepted Tony's 'special' assignments or David's denial of SOP or the civil rights of the accused. And no one would have gone along with McGee's even temporary promotion to SFA without the necessary six years' experience in the field.

"Ma'am, you're paying the price for your organizational, ah, creativity right now," Janet explained slowly. "Since the promotions were processed, stated as permanent rank and level promotions, not details, not temporary, you must now file the necessary disciplinary paperwork, hold interviews and hearings, and document the nature of DiNozzo's and McGee's demotions. You cannot simple expect these men to swallow the reductions in pay, benefits, and advancement by attaching a sticky note that says 'Agent Gibbs is back.'"

Shepard's glare was icy green fire. "I will not have my agency – or the MCRT – crippled because of a few sheets of paper!" Shepard snarled. "There are servicemen and women out there who need our help – need the help of the best MCRT in NCIS and I'm not going to let you tie my hands –"

Janet rose, as slow and as stately as her 58-year-old joints would let her. "Director Shepard. Even you can't derail government regulations in order to get the MCRT that you want. That ship sailed when Agent Gibbs left. When you signed off on Agent DiNozzo's and McGee's promotions and refused to assign an SAC."

"I won't accept that." Shepard leaned forward across her desk, trying to stare Janet down. "If I have to go over your head, I will do that. But, trust me, Mrs. Adams, I will have the MCRT that this agency needs."

"I'm sure the Inspector General will be happy to take your call, ma'am. He's been cc'd on every piece of paper I've filed concerning the MCRT for the past four months and I've met with him three times to justify Officer David's involvement in the evidentiary process and the amount of hours Agent DiNozzo is accruing." Janet glanced at her watch, one eyebrow raised. "IG Davis is at his daughter's white coat ceremony at Georgetown Medical School right now, but I'm sure Janet, his assistant, could put you on his agenda. Now, if you will excuse me?"

Janet swept out of the office, eager to get back downstairs to make her own phone call to the IG. But first, she'd stop by the MCRT bullpen. She had to see this circus for herself. Make sure McGee and DiNozzo were alive and well. And find out if the director had said anything about demotions to either of the two men.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place just as Escaped ends and Singled Out begins in NCIS S4.

Gibbs was back. Back at his desk. Back in the bullpen. Back as team lead. The man looked up, blue eyes glaring from between shaggy grey bangs and that sorry Magnum-wanna-be moustache. The toe of Tony's shoe caught on the thin carpeting and he nearly stumbled. Okay, that wasn't Gibbs. That was Frosty the Cerveza-Man. Swiss-Cheese Jethro. The guy who annoyed Ducky, patted Tim on the back, and called Ziva, Kate.

Awesome.

The glare from Tim's smile was nearly blinding enough to keep Tony from seeing how his files, his cup, his phone, and all the rest of his possessions had been thrown haphazardly on Tim's – on the SFA's - desk. Nice. At least Gibbs hadn't lost his ability to piss Tony off and put him in his place without saying a word. Maybe Tim hadn't noticed that his too-soon promotion to SFA was over. Naturally, that meant that the paperwork the man still hadn't done would be falling into Tony's lap.

McGee hurried past, tail wagging and simpering. "Good to have you back, Boss!" 

Ziva prowled around the corner and slid into her chair. "Gibbs." That one word summed it up – warm and content and a little bit smug that it had been her call that had brought Gibbs running. Yeah, she wasn't going to let them forget that.

Tony's feet seemed rooted to the floor at the edge of the bullpen, his thumb still crooked underneath the strap of the backpack on his shoulder. Alarm bells were clanging in his brain. Some guy was sitting at Tony's desk. His desk. He'd earned it, dammit. Wilford-Brimley-on-Steroids had come back without a single nod or phone call or 'Hey, DiNozzo – you know that promotion? You knew that couldn't be for real, right?' The rug wasn't so much pulled out from under Tony's feet as wrapped around his body before he was left for dead behind a dumpster.

"DiNozzo. Director." Gibbs jerked his head towards the stairs and stared.

Tony snorted, his eyes rolling so hard he thought they would tumble right out of his head and race around on the floor. 'Oh, what the hell now?' he asked himself. 'Jenny' was either twitching for an update on the undercover op or oh-so eager to tear his promotion away from him with long, pointy nails. Gibbs was back – hell, she was probably so happy that her favorite guy was back that she'd pull Tony off the Benoit op and put Gibbs in his place there, too. 

He'd had a date with Jeanne last night, just drinks, just getting-to-know-you stuff. Tony DiNardo was moving slow, like he couldn't quite believe this beautiful doctor was interested in him. Tony DiNozzo was looking over his shoulder for Dr. Benoit's father's soldiers to pull him into an alley and stomp him into pudding. It wasn't like he had back-up. Or a real second identity. He lived at his own apartment, drove his own car, and showed up to NCIS on time, for crying out loud. But it hadn't mattered. The danger, the electric buzz of risk along Tony's skin - hell, it was the only thing about this new life as Senior Agent that made him feel alive.

But Gibbs was back. Tony wouldn't get away with two hours of sleep, fantasy Threat Assessment Seminars out of the country, and more dentist appointments than anyone had a right to have with Gibbs watching him. Ziva and Tim had barely spared him a glance in the past four months: they arrived after he did and left long before, turning up their noses at friendship and camaraderie and anything resembling interest in Tony's life. With Leroy Jethro You-Have-No-Personal-Life back, the undercover op was over. But, hey, Jenny had probably called Tony up there to tell him Gibbs was better at that, too. Better at Team Lead, better at undercover, better in general.

Wasn't that what the others had been telling him all summer?

Gibbs would probably be able to sweet-talk the lady, dig out the intel, and wrap up the arms dealer and his cronies with one hand while sanding his damned boat with the other. 

Tony tossed his backpack towards the corner behind Tim's – his – desk with a lot more force than necessary and trudged towards the stairs, feeling the ice cold blue stare on the back of his neck all the way.

It wasn't that he was mad that Gibbs was back. Down deep, he wasn't surprised. The man did what he wanted. He had tantrums like a six-year-old, stomped around, slammed doors and broke phones and, when he got his own way again, he showed up like nothing had ever happened. Tony laughed, the grin on his face sharp enough to cut glass. Gibbs was the only actor in the movie of his life – on screen 24/7. The camera followed Gibbs and Gibbs only. Everyone else – his team, his ex-wives, criminals, other agents - everyone – just stood around playing with themselves when the almighty Gibbs wasn't in the frame. 

Oh, heck no, Gibbs, we didn't have lives while you were gone. We didn't adjust the dynamic of the team, welcome in a new probie, and begin to file off the rough edges when Ziva and Tim tried to fall back into the 'don't listen to Tony' crap they used to pull. Tony hadn't spent weeks getting Abby used to his own style of reporting, hadn't made a separate peace with Ducky over good scotch and bad memories. He and Tim hadn't gotten the rush of gratitude and anxiety at their new promotions and tried to juggle new duties, new cases, new roles and ways of relating, and well as new fears that they couldn't possibly be good enough. Nope. In Gibbs' mind, when he was gone, they'd all milled around like lost sheep without the grey-haired Rottweiler to bite them in the ass.

Tony had worked up a pretty good head of steam by the time he hit the top of the stairs. A transfer. That was what he wanted. His own team. Maybe here, maybe the left coast. Sunny San Diego. Pearl Harbor. Hell, as the newest Team Lead in NCIS he'd probably wind up in New Jersey or Maine. Freezing his butt off on a bunch of rocks while the worst criminal activity he had to investigate was sailors getting drunk and trying to hump a moose.

"Tony."

Janet Adams stopped a few paces away, her dark gaze strafing up and down as if checking Tony over for injuries. 

"Janet." He didn't have time for this. Not for friendship or compassion – not now. It would take the sting of bitterness off of his tongue if she said anything nice, the angry wind out of his sails. He tilted his head, looking backward along her likely path until his gaze stopped on the closed door of Director Shepard's office.

"Huh." It was like being punched in the gut.

He watched Janet's mouth twitch like she wanted to shout – to laugh or groan or take Tony to task for working too many hours – again. Tony blinked and a new realm of horrors flashed behind his eyes. Of course. Any changes in status or payroll or benefits had to be processed through HR. Gibbs' reinstatement, his security update, even his damned parking space had to be wrangled. That meant … Tony's eyes narrowed. Had Janet known? Had she known that Gibbs would be sitting at his old desk this morning, acting like he'd never left? Tony glanced back down the stairs as if he could see around the corner and into Gibbs' foggy-but-scheming mind. This all felt just a little bit like a set-up, like some red-tape cutting and back-scratching had gone on behind the scenes while Tony was left to walk into work this morning completely blind.

He did not like that feeling.

Tony breathed deep and let it out slow, tying on a new mask. A mask of happy-go-lucky investigator. Of Y-not Tony, able to bob and weave and take the punches his so-called superiors and friends threw at him and still smile.

Across the narrow hallway, Janet frowned and hurried closer.

"Don't do that, Tony," she stated, grabbing Tony by the wrist. "Don't you put me on the other side. I'm not going. I'm going to be right here, beside you, until we get to the heart of this."

Tony stared, unwilling to give up control, to let the mask slip even if Janet was telling the truth. Not now.

The older woman held on tight. "Keep the anger, Tony, but use your head and your gut – you're a good investigator. Come talk to me when you decide whether or not you can trust me. I'll be here." She sighed. "But whatever you do, don't sign anything. Don't even agree verbally to anything. Play for time. You can do that."

"I can," Tony answered evenly, still suspicious. He wanted to believe her.

"You're going to need every ounce of resilience and stamina to stand up to Shepard, to stand up to both of them. I'm not going to try to convince you of anything, but please don't push people away who genuinely want to help you." Janet let go and took a step backward, concern darkening her eyes.

Lips pursed, Tony tried to keep his voice light, his manner friendly, open. "Gibbs is downstairs acting like the only thing that’s happened in four months is some unfortunate facial hair. How long has this been in the works? I mean," his chuckle was dry and tasted like ash, "the man had to be evaluated before he even got his weapon back." The anger swirling in Tony's gut was sliding over the edge towards hurt and betrayal and he didn't have time for any of that.

"He doesn't have his weapon. He doesn't even have current credentials or the right to enter this building, Tony. Not unless there is someone with a high security clearance mowing down all the roadblocks." Janet looked pissed, two spots of color high on her cheeks. "We both know who that is."

"Can she do that?" Of course she could, Tony reminded himself. She was the director. If she could promote McGee without the proper years of service, if she could allow Ziva to handle evidence and have access to secure files, if she could hold Tony to complete secrecy about an undercover assignment without backup – maybe Shepard's connections were just that good. He eyed the HR woman who had been his friend. Maybe she still was. With Jenny's manipulative hands elbow deep in this mess, maybe Janet had been as blindsided as Tony.

Gibbs. Benoit. Michelle Lee. Ziva. Tony closed his eyes, a laugh croaking out from between his tight lips. Yeah. Even if Janet Adams and HR were on his side, Tony was walking into mythological levels of trouble this morning. Stuck between the irresistible force of the NCIS director and the immovable rock of Leroy Jethro Gibbs. He moved slowly towards the closed door, his mind churning. Red-haired Jenny on one side as Scylla, monstrous tentacles reaching out to grab Tony and drag him beneath the foaming sea – on the other, silver and silent, Charybdis-Gibbs, straight, deadly rocks just waiting for him to steer away from one danger into the arms of another.

Tony shivered. "This just keeps getting better and better," he murmured.

"Tony."

One hand on the door knob, he hesitated.

"I'll be in my office."

He nodded and adjusted his jacket, making sure his tie was sitting properly against his neck, and opened the door. He'd apologize later. Right now it was show time.

Jenny was standing over Cynthia, leaning over the slight woman's shoulder, pointing at something on her assistant's screen. Blood-red lips locked over whatever commands she'd been giving when Tony sauntered through the door.

"Go ahead in, Tony," Shepard smiled, sweet and motherly. Tony shivered. "I'll be right in."

With a nod, Tony moved into the inner sanctum, closing the door behind him. Nervous energy had him moving, pacing, touching things. A huge bouquet of flowers on her desk drew his itching fingers. The card was prominent, almost like a flashing neon billboard crying out for Tony to investigate. Well, heck, if he was going to be playing fluffy-puppy-DiNozzo, how could he resist? 

Two words were written on the card. Only two, written in an oh-so-familiar hand. "Thanks. Jethro." Could Shepard be any more transparent?

Jenny caught him snooping – of course – so the usual Tony hemming-and-hawing proceeded like clockwork as Tony's mind spun, dredging up and dismissing likely scenarios, waiting for the ax to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful and awestruck by all of your wonderful comments! I was biting my nails about Janet, whether or not my readers would accept an OC like her. Thank you all for making my week with your love of her!!! I promise to respond to each comment and thank you each when time permits. I so hope you'll continue to tell me what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

Tony let the water run down his face and into the sink. He didn't care if his tie or jacket got wet, didn't care how long the water ran or whether or not his team noticed how long he'd been gone. Eyes closed, he tried to swallow the bile, chewed on it, spit it into the sink as he focused on his breathing. In. Out. Don't puke. In. Out. Don't puke.

The meeting with the director had been one of the best performances of his life. Chatty, oblivious Tony DiNozzo, joking about flowers and dodging Shepard's questions and concerns had taken it out of him, especially as exhausted and angry as he'd started this damned day. He blinked, glancing at his watch. 

It was only 9:30.

Rota. Special Agent in Charge in Rota, Spain. Senior Agents spent their entire lives trying to get a position like that and here she was, dangling it in front of Tony like he had a snowball's chance in hell of getting it. Tony swept up another handful of water and sucked it down. What would Shepard have done if he'd called her bluff and accepted? After all, a choice assignment like that would be fought over by every Senior Agent in NCIS, it would have to be posted, interviewed, and then have the SAC selected from the best candidate. Not even the director could cherry-pick her favorite without following the rules, not in US government employment. He blinked water from his eyelashes. What, exactly had been in that red file folder she'd been waving around? Did it really hold information about the Rota position? Was it empty? What would have happened if he'd grabbed it out of her hand and opened it?

Playing him. She was playing him. Dangling a sweet carrot underneath Tony's nose. He wanted to think he was good enough to man a foreign office. He wanted to believe that he'd earned that kind of long jump over other agents' heads. It sure as hell stroked his ego at the perfect time, when Gibbs was slapping him down. When McGee and Ziva – not to mention Abby – were disgustingly joyful and satisfied that the Great White Gibbs was back on top. 

That sick twisting in his gut ramped up again. He was disgusted with himself. Disgusted that he'd confided to Shepard about his difficulties with the team. Disgusted that he'd eaten up her praise and the chance to show her what kind of an agent he really was. He'd begged for the undercover op, told himself that he'd was the one working her to get that assignment. He spit again, watching the yellow-green stuff swirl down the drain. He'd needed to feel good about his skills. About his competence. Facing the chuckleheads up in the bullpen day in and day out, Abby's accusing attitude, and Ducky's grief, Tony had been floundering. And didn't sweet, kind, supportive Jenny hold out her bishop's ring for him to fall to his knees and kiss at just the right moment.

Tony grabbed two handfuls of paper towels from the dispenser and scrubbed them across his face and through his hair. He forced himself to stare at his reflection. Damn it. He was a better interrogator than that. He knew how to play a suspect or a witness, to make them feel inadequate, stick pins into their ego until they practically begged you to let them tell their story. It was what he did. But, apparently, he couldn't see it from the other side. Apparently, if you stir up Tony's fear of failure and his sense of self-doubt, his brain cells would circle the drain just like his breakfast.

"Okay, DiNozzo. Time to get your act together. There's only room for one brain-damaged agent on this team." Huh. Maybe he should be grateful that Gibbs was back, after all. Grateful for the mess that was the MCRT and its HR fiascos. For Shepard's manipulation and his own stupidity. For Janet's warning. Apparently, trusting himself with major life decisions was a bad idea right now. Because, for the life of him, no matter how Tony parsed the director's offer, her attitude, the way she'd promoted him and McGee so damned quickly but refused to file Gibbs' retirement paperwork, nothing made sense.

Maybe Janet Adams had told the director just enough about how HR works in government agencies that it made Shepard nervous. Nervous that her tame Undercover Operative would take one look at the way Gibbs had peed all over the bullpen to show him who was boss and ask for a transfer. His own team. Just like Tony had been determined to do when he went up those stairs. Maybe she'd offered him a transfer to keep him from actually requesting a transfer? He shook his head, water droplets strafing the sink and mirror. Maybe, if he'd accepted, she'd have put some bullshit delays in front of him just to keep him working the Benoit case. Hell, if he'd taken the transfer, maybe she would have pulled him from the bullpen and put him on that undercover op full time.

And the transfer? Well, hell, if Tony screwed up on an undercover op with nobody but Shepard knowing the facts, the mysterious offer of Rota would disappear without anyone being the wiser. And so would Tony.

"Get it together, DiNozzo," he snapped at himself, "paranoia isn't a good look for a federal agent." Tony's red-rimmed eyes stood out against the sudden paleness of his skin.

The vibration in his pocket had him grabbing for his phone automatically as reality shuddered through him. "DiNozzo."

"Got a case for the MCRT, Agent DiNozzo – there's been a report of a possible kidnapping –"

"Call Gibbs," Tony snarled and then snapped his phone shut.

It rang again a moment later. He didn't bother to say hello or identify himself. "Call Gibbs."

"Gibbs is back? When? I don't have any paperwork for this! Does he even have a cell phone-" Watkins in dispatch sounded excited and worried. Yeah, nobody had liked dealing with Gibbs before his Mexican tequila tour.

Tony hoped dispatch could hear the teeth in his smile. "Not my problem." He hung up.

Before the phone in his hand could ring again, Tony opened it and scrolled through his contacts. HR would have the answers he needed. Answers about Gibbs' status, about whether or not the man had – overnight, apparently – passed his PE and PT evals and got his clearance back. He needed to see Janet anyway, to apologize for his suspicion. He smiled. She'd understand. The woman got him – and had since he'd first set foot in this ugly orange building. Still, a gift certificate for a spa day would be appreciated. 

But he couldn’t tell Janet about Benoit. About the undercover mission. He couldn't explain his fears and his doubts and the whirling treadmill Shepard had put him on, not even caring that his legs were jelly and he couldn't think – couldn't put the pieces together so they made sense. It was time to talk to someone. To get someone else's uncorrupted brain to work on this. But who? Who could Tony trust? Who would give him the facts, pure and simple, tell him to his face if he was being paranoid or just healthily distrustful? He bypassed the first half dozen contacts. Then the next dozen. Fellow NCIS agents – nope. He wasn't going to put anyone else's position at risk. Higher ups? Assistant Director Vance? Oh, hell no. The stick up that guy's ass had only gotten bigger over the years. Agents in sister agencies? Yeah, like who? Fornell? Rabb? Someone higher up? Yeah, he could see SecNav taking a meeting with lowly Agent DiNozzo.

Tony's thumb hovered over a name. A private number given to him over a year ago. The two men had started off talking cases, brainstorming with each other ever since Tony had called his office to try to get some insight into Kyle Boone. Psychopath. Nut case. They didn't come much stranger than Boone – and Tony had not liked the look in Gibbs' eye when the killer toyed with him in interrogation. If anyone understood the criminal mindset it was a profiler – THE profiler. Aaron Hotchner was a legend of determination and understated skill and a good man and had welcomed Tony's questions and concerns. He'd discussed Tony's fears and Boone's likely reactions, had talked him down when Paula went missing, and had stayed in touch after. He'd become a friend. 

A friend was exactly what Tony needed. Someone who had his own dysfunctional team to deal with, his own awkward work-family interactions. Hotch and Tony had commiserated about their childhoods – both disowned by their rich bastard fathers and their absent mothers. Commiserated about their angry, arrogant mentors. Tony's fist clenched, the case of his phone squeaking under the pressure.

He'd pushed the button and was listening to the phone ring on the other end before he realized he'd already made the decision.

"Hotchner."

"DiNozzo," Tony responded. And, damn it, the profiler was just that good that he heard the distress in Tony's one word.

"I have a meeting starting right now, but I'll be free in half an hour. Does that work?"

Tony laughed and shook his head, one hand covering his eyes. "Make it an hour. I'm putting in for leave. There's going to be shouting."

He could almost hear Hotchner's frown. "I'm very interested in hearing this story."

"Good." Tony's sigh of relief was too loud, too needy, but damned if he was going to try to hide his attitude from the best profiler in the business. "Because I could use someone else's ear – and brain – right now."

Hotchner was silent for a long moment. "Sounds like we're going to need some privacy."

"Not my apartment." Too Grand Central Station, especially when certain people found out that Tony had - unexpectedly - taken leave.

"Not my office."

Yeah, Aaron wasn't wrong. Besides the fact that profilers were nosier than a squad of ninth grade cheerleaders, Tony wasn't going to subject himself to Jason Gideon's passive-aggressive judgment. Again.

"I'll meet you at Arlington. Tomb of the Unknowns."

"Perfect." Tony glanced at his watch. A cemetery filled with the military's honored dead. A reminder of the people Tony had sworn to protect and serve. The tomb of a faceless, nameless soldier, sailor, or airman who had given his or her all. "And, Aaron – thanks."

Tony took another swipe at his dripping hair and dropped his phone into his pocket. The leave form was on his computer, but he wasn't sure that if he stepped into the bullpen that he'd make it out without a bloody nose – or bloody knuckles. The image in the mirror flashed a half-smile. HR had the forms he needed and there was nothing in his backpack that he couldn't do without. "Janet, Janet, Janet," he murmured, shouldering his way out the men's room door and down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for your great comments! Back to Hotch and CM in the next chapter. I'm hoping to keep updating in a timely manner as about half of the story is already written.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're messing with canon CM here - this scene takes place after P-911 and The Perfect Storm and Aftermath will not happen. (Some discussion of Psychodrama will.) Since Hotch and Reid's discussion from Ch 1, we're hurrying Hotch's insistence that Elle get help. Some of the dialogue in this chapter is from their interaction in Aftermath. PS, your comments and kudos are awesome!

Aaron was shuffling the file folders on his desk into neat piles when Elle knocked. He stilled his hands and shut off the continuous loop of thought that Tony's call had begun. Standing, he brushed one hand down his tie – a gesture his teammates told him was a sure sign he was focusing, changing mental gears, and readying himself for a challenge.

"You wanted to see me?"

Pressing his lips together, Hotch gestured Elle to a chair. "Close the door?" he requested, taking a seat behind his desk.

Her back was straight, her shoulders high, her chin lifted just an inch too high. Her plain clothes, muted colors that didn't draw the eye, the messy, off-putting hair cut – they all screamed 'don't look at me.' 'I'm fine.' 'There's nothing to see here.' That much in itself should have clued them all in that Elle was hurting – it was a concerning departure from her previous style, her playful, confident demeanor. Elle Greenaway was a beautiful woman – and knew it – but since her injury, her attitude seemed to dare anyone to take notice.

Elle perched so close to the edge of the chair that Aaron was afraid she'd fall off.

"How are you doing?" he began. 

"I'm fine."

The tiny frown she affected, the slight tilt of her head as if in confusion wouldn't have fooled a nine-year-old let alone a trained profiler like Hotch.

"Are you?" Hotch made sure his tone wasn't too gentle; that pity or condescension didn't make an appearance in his voice or his expression. Elle wasn't an unsub, but she was damaged. Hurting. The wrong word, the wrong inflection could do more harm. Hadn't she been hurt enough? "I'm not the only one who's noticed that you're anxious, on edge."

Anger folded Elle's brow. "In case you haven't noticed, we have a hard job, Hotch. I'm no more anxious than Reid or Morgan."

"That's true, but neither Reid nor Morgan is recovering from a life-threatening injury. And no one has approached me with concerns about their behavior."

Eyes narrowed, Elle let the anger out. "Reid. That, that child has no idea what he's talking about!"

Hotch raised his eyebrows. "Elle. Please. We've all noticed. And I'm here to assure you that asking for help, or needing to talk about what happened is not a sign of weakness. It won't matter to your place in the FBI or on this team."

"I do not need help," the profiler seethed, leaning forward, every inch of her body stiff with tension.

Aaron paused, hoping his agent would reel herself in and listen. "We've all needed help at some point in time. Me. Gideon. Morgan." 

She huffed, disbelieving. "Derek would never –"

Hotch tried flashing a smile. "He fights it – sometimes for so long that his recovery is even more difficult – but don't think Derek doesn't get help when it's necessary." Considering Morgan's past, Hotch had nothing but admiration for a man who knew when to ask – or demand – that someone listen. He watched Elle for a long moment. Each member of the team was unique, extraordinary. They had each survived something, been molded by their past experiences into agents who would sacrifice their lives for victims of crime. For the first time, Aaron was concerned that Elle was changing her mind. Weighing the costs and finding the price of their job too high.

"I thought we had a pact around here, not to profile each other," Elle snarled, getting louder and more sarcastic with each word. "You, I understand, it's kind of your job, but somebody needs to take Gideon's minion out and teach him that lesson."

"Okay – that's enough." Aaron's tone cut through Elle's head of steam. "As your supervising agent I've ordered a psychological status report."

Elle's face flushed. "I don't need a shrink, Hotch!"

"That's up to me to make that assessment. And since you just threatened a fellow agent, I'm going to insist that you turn in your weapon until Psych has officially discharged you." Hotch stood, one hand out.

Elle rose with him, her eyes hooded. "I wouldn’t – I wasn't seriously threatening him."

Hotch hesitated. "I believe that's true. But I also believe that there is a lot of unresolved anger that fueled that threat and your attitude, and you can't take that into the field. I'm sorry, but until you've met with psych and have been cleared, you'll be on desk duty only." Hotch nodded. "Your weapon, Agent Greenaway."

Scowling, her lips white, Elle unclipped her holster. She stared, moving slowly and deliberately, and set the weapon on Hotch's open hand.

Sometime between Hotch's demand and Elle's reluctant compliance, the fire behind her eyes dimmed and her muscles sagged.

"Elle. I'm here. We're all here for you. We want to help."

In an instant, the flame of her anger reignited and Elle snapped to attention. "I'm supposed to believe that you care? That you have my back?" Her laugh was ugly, cutting. "The last time you sent me home you got me shot."

Aaron flinched backwards as if the bullet had impacted his own chest, guilt tearing through him. He ruthlessly wrestled it down. Elle didn't need his guilt or his remorse. If she blamed him for her shooting, for what Randall Garner had done, then he was exactly the wrong person to reach out and offer help. She needed a friend, and she obviously didn't see Hotch as one. Not anymore. "Agent Greenaway," he stated evenly, burying his churning emotions, "your first evaluation is in an hour. Don't be late."

She rolled her eyes. "You're the boss." Dismissing him, she threw the door open and stalked out.

Gideon, standing outside the door, watched her back until she hurried down the steps and into the bullpen. He lifted his head to stare at Hotch, taking in Elle's weapon in his hand, and pursed his lips.

Aaron bent and stowed the weapon in his upper right desk drawer and twisted the key in the lock before pocketing it. Of course Jason had been listening. Eavesdropping. Hotch was glad the man hadn't simply barged in – as was his usual style – and taken over the meeting.

Gideon had his own issues to deal with. His breakdown had been loud and messy, publicized widely. He'd gone off on his own, ignoring help, rejecting friendship, and his complete recovery was still in doubt, if you asked Hotch. Aaron would do everything in his power to make sure Elle was treated differently. That she didn't get away with pushing them away. But, more importantly, that she was not brought back to the team too soon, before she'd had a chance to heal.

He laid his fingertips against the pile of folders on his desk. "I've spoken with Assistant Director Strauss. I've requested downtime for the team in the light of Agent Greenaway's – difficulties."

Gideon took one step inside his office. "You don't have to do that. We can cope with a man down."

"Two men," Hotch replied. "I'll be staying here to keep an eye on the psychological evaluations."

The older man gestured with one hand. "We've dealt with cases with fewer agents. There's an interesting case in California. Bank robberies with a strange psychological component. I can take Morgan, Reid, and JJ –"

"No." Aaron didn't need this. He didn't want to be rude, to shut Jason down without a discussion, but he was not going to put the mental health of his team in any more danger. He took a deep breath and met Gideon's bland, appraising eye. "The undercurrent on the team right now isn't healthy. Morgan is too concerned about his partner to be objective, and Reid is much more sensitive to the team dynamic than he admits."

"Do you think I don't know that?" Gideon asked, obviously defensive.

"No, you clearly do," Hotch agreed. "But FBI regulations are in place for a reason. Elle never passed her psych eval since her shooting. The rest of the team was also targeted by Randall Garner and we have not dealt with it, we just took on the next case and went on with our lives as if we were not affected."

"We're fine," Gideon whispered, echoing Elle's statement from just moments before.

Hotch had never been more sure of his decision. "No. We're not fine. And I'm putting my foot down. We can consult, examine the case files and try to profile the unsub from here, but we're not going into the field."

Gideon scratched the side of his nose, lowering his gaze. He pushed himself off the wall and headed towards the hallway. 

Hotch waited. He'd seen this kind of behavior before. He knew what was coming.

Just as he would have moved out of sight, Jason turned, shrugging one shoulder. "I hate to think of the unsubs getting away, the people in danger because you're worried about a little tension on the team."

Teeth grinding, Aaron watched Gideon leave, tossing his words behind him at Hotch like a live grenade. "Nicely done," he murmured. If Jason couldn't get Hotch to agree with him, he would make damn sure that the responsibility – the blame – for any deaths or trauma inflicted on innocent people while the team was on downtime sat squarely on Hotch's shoulders.

Luckily, Hotch's shoulders were broad. He grabbed his cell phone and headed out to meet Tony.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony sat on the marble steps, staring off into the distance. The plain white headstones stood up in row after row, stark against the deep green of the grass. His sunglasses kept his gaze hidden as it roved across the landscape and as he took in the military guard standing to his left at the end of the Tomb of the Unknowns. So many young men and women lost to war; so many who didn't get a separate marker, a place for their family and friends to come to grieve. Tony had been proud when Gibbs scooped him up from Baltimore to work on behalf of these men and women. To offer them justice; closure. To make sure those who would make the impossible job of defending the freedoms of the United States of America any harder were stopped.

If he was honest, Tony was still a little bit proud. Regardless of the last few months of stress and doubt, of disrespect shining out from McGee and Ziva's eyes and the questions building up behind his own, Tony was happy that he'd followed Gibbs to NCIS. He'd learned a lot from the man – both good and bad. He'd honed his investigative skills, improved his marksmanship, and widened his horizons from big city police forces to the world at large. Bigger issues – a broader understanding. Politics. Different cultures. The universal themes of greed and corruption and the way some used the kindness of others to fuel hate and destruction.

Police forces are microcosms. Communities. With hierarchies and rules and a particular brand of acceptance and expectation. Each police force Tony had worked with had its own flavor, its own way of dealing with its wayward children, and its own lines of behavior it expected their officers to respect. Tony had found NCIS to be both bigger and smaller than the city forces he'd once called home. Bigger in scale and reach and yet so small that Tony could feel his shoulders pressing into the edges of his appointed space.

Maybe that wasn't NCIS's fault. Maybe somewhere else, in another office, in another state, it wouldn't feel like Tony's place was shrinking and hung all around with alarm bells and booby-traps to make sure he didn't try to escape. He breathed out hard, the sound a near snarl. Gibbs' return and his attitude towards Tony's leadership made him want to blame the hard-assed, defensive jerk for trying to tie Tony down to his subordinate position, his team 'good guy to have around for laughs' image. Someone Gibbs could feel free to toss across the office and back into the meaningless SFA box he'd put Tony in years ago. But, in all honesty, Tony figured a lot of his trapped feelings were his own fault.

After all, he'd always let it happen.

Tony let his head hang down over his clasped hands. The sun was hot on his neck, sending a single trickle of sweat down his back. Down in HR, Janet had laid it out for Tony – how Shepard had wanted to demote him and Tim immediately, to take away their promotions, their pay. To wave a magic wand and restore Gibbs' team to the way it was four months ago. Shepard's ego was showing again. She might be the titular head of an international agency, but she somehow imagined her role as more Empress of All She Surveyed than red-tape wrangler and political ass-kisser. Tony huffed a laugh, his shoulders shaking. Judi Dench as M. Mr. Waverley. More like Le Femme Nikita in a power suit. Jenny could do all the hand-waving she wanted, but government regs for pay scale and job descriptions were pretty damn unyielding.

Janet had slapped papers around on her desk, vented, read Tony the riot act for even thinking she would turn her back on him and, in the next moment, had sat down and explained how folding and letting Shepard and Gibbs have their way without a fight was not in anyone's best interest. Then she'd taken a good look at his face, at the water still dripping down inside his shirt collar and the set of his jaw and had filled in his Request for Leave with her fingers flying on the keyboard.

"Three weeks? A month?" she'd asked, hands poised to enter dates. "Since Shepard put your extra hours in for comp time rather than LEAP pay, God knows you have the time on the books."

Tony had smiled, knowing he'd been forgiven. "Let's not push it. Two weeks should be enough to –" he'd stopped. To do what? To get his head on straight? To let the undercover op fall apart? To come to terms with leaving the MCRT? To hope Gibbs would settle down and settle in and, what? Start behaving like a friend and mentor instead of a bastard who only wanted his own way? 

"Tony –"

Janet's voice had been soft, her eyes warm. Tony had been both profoundly grateful and wickedly pissed.

"Two weeks." He'd stood, anxious to put NCIS in his rearview mirror. "I'm not going to run. And I don't intend for them to get too used to me not being around just in case …" He'd shaken his head. Maybe it was cowardly to leave himself a safety net – a failsafe. But could returning to Gibbs' team, to Shepard's manipulations be considered safe?

Tony raised his head at the scuff of a shoe on the marble steps at his back. He stayed silent, not quite sure how to start this conversation. How to tell Aaron such a convoluted story; how to explain where he stood – how messed up his job situation was right now without earning a raised eyebrow and a huff of disdain.

"Whatever you're thinking, my advice would be to stop."

Hotchner sat on the step above and to Tony's left, his legs stretching out, dark blue suit pants perfectly creased, shoes shined.

Tony glanced up at the man's face. "Has anyone ever told you that you should be the poster-boy for all things FBI?"

Aaron smiled and continued to roll up his white shirtsleeves. "I am not a poster-boy, Tony. My picture, however, does decorate the inside of some lockers, I understand. Purely as a sartorial goal, of course."

"Of course," Tony played along. "Seriously, though, how did all the agents I know miss the FBI class on how to dress, cut their hair, and carry themselves?"

"It's not my fault if Agent Fornell and his team have so many ex-wives to support that they can only afford the Men's Warehouse clearance bin."

"Fair enough." Tony tilted his head. "But, what's Gideon's excuse?"

Sleeves neatly folded to lay flat just below the elbow, Aaron shrugged. "Jason believes 'professorial messiness' lets the unsubs underestimate him as harmless and the administration overlook his eccentric quirks as if his head resided in the academic clouds."

"'Quirks,'" Tony quoted.

"Let's not get started on Gideon or I'll be forced to bring up a similar older mentor-figure with feet of clay." 

Tony snapped his mouth shut and turned away, his gut churning.

Aaron moved down to sit next to Tony and breathed out a long sigh. "Gibbs is back." The profiler stared out into the distance, his jaw set. "It's not like you didn't expect it. I'm going to assume that his return was both abrupt and insensitive."

The breath of a laugh fought its way out from between Tony's clenched teeth. "Pretty safe assumption, Mister Profiler Man."

"True." Hands clasped in front of him mirroring Tony's posture, Aaron glanced towards him. "I can make other assumptions if you'd like, but I'd rather hear what's going on from you."

Tony nodded, searching the distance. "My call wasn't even about Gibbs. About how he shut himself off so completely, hustling down to Mexico to nurse his grudges and his anger but, apparently, was easily reachable by Ziva. One phone call and he was back here to pull her ass out of the fire." Tony was ashamed of himself, of how happy he'd been to see his boss, the man he'd considered a friend. He'd felt the slap-happy grin on his face when he'd seen Gibbs in his basement. And then the gut-punch when the man had called him "Tim" and insulted him in the next breath. Damn it. Tony rubbed a hand across his forehead. He couldn't think about Gibbs, not now.

"So, not about Gibbs."

Yeah, that was Hotch trying to drag Tony's mind back to the point.

"To talk about Gibbs I'm going to need my leather couch, some jazz on the radio, and a tumbler full of the good vodka, so, let's just table that for the moment." Tony stood up, stretching out the kinks in his back. "Let's walk."

The two strolled between rows of headstones, speaking quietly, naturally subdued in this place. 

"I don't want to get you into any trouble …"

Aaron held out one hand. "Lucky for you I've kept my license to practice in DC, Virginia, and Maryland. Now," he jerked his fingers, "give me a dollar."

Tony smiled and dug his wallet out of his back pocket. "You got change for a five?" He held the bill up between two fingers.

Hotchner snatched it out of his hand. "Funny. Now," he folded the bill into his pocket, "as your attorney, you'd better tell me what's going on with Jennifer Shepard because even Strauss is murmuring."

Tony shook his head. "You've talked to Strauss today?"

It was Aaron's turn to stare out into the distance. "Problems with the team seem to be contagious right now. You've got Gibbs and Shepard, and I've got Gideon and –" his lips closed with finality. "I can't really talk about it."

Turning to stare at the other man, Tony put his hands on his hips. "Damn it. Here I am bitching about my problems and I haven't even thought about your team." He tilted his head. "It's Elle, isn't it? She came back too soon."

Aaron's eyes closed as the hint of a smile flashed across his face. "You'd make a great profiler, Tony." He nudged Tony with his elbow. "Want a new job?"

"Huh." Tony pointed at his friend's chest. "Don't kid about that. I may take you up on it."

The two started off again, making their way south towards the parking lot. It was easy to see that Aaron wasn't ready to talk about whatever had happened to drive him towards Erin Strauss' office this morning. Whatever it was, it must be deep and dark, because Hotch would normally avoid that woman like the plague. Huh. Plague. A few years ago that word would have meant nothing to Tony. Now he shuddered every time he heard it.

"I came back too soon, once. Okay, a few more times than once, if I'm going to be honest." Tony rubbed his fist against his chest, remembering the burning, the blood rising up in his throat like he was drowning in it. "I got caught in a crazy woman's revenge fantasy and contracted the plague of all things."

"'The plague?'" Aaron's disbelief was loud among the quiet graves. "That is too strange to be a lie."

"No lie," Tony replied, hands in his pockets. "But I remember coming back to work too soon. I wasn't over it – physically or mentally. It had been close. As close as I've ever come to actually dying – and not by a macho-style bullet or a Hollywood hostage situation. I wasn't the hero protecting the innocent, just a guy who opened the mail with a little too much enthusiasm." The movie screen in Tony's mind filled in the scene – white powder in the air, Kate's red-rimmed eyes, blue lights that seemed to symbolize the grave. "And then, when I dragged myself back to work, I had to put myself between the team and a bomb and then watch my partner die from a sniper's bullet." Kate. Sweet Kate. "I can still feel her blood on my face."

Before the guilt could swamp him, before Aaron could offer a comforting platitude, something about loss or grief or whatever, Tony continued. "I'll always wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed home that extra week. If Gibbs had accepted the temporary agent Morrow assigned to the team. Bill Watkins. He was a good guy, a team lead waiting for his new posting." Tony swallowed, playing the scenes across his mind's eye like he'd done hundreds - thousands of times before. "He was healthy, fresh, not nursing a low grade fever and exhaustion. Maybe he'd have seen something, maybe he wouldn't have been so busy trying to breathe, listening to his pulse pounding in his ears." On that roof in Norfolk, he and Gibbs had raced up the stairs and black spots had been dancing across Tony's vision as they took out the bad guys. "Maybe, maybe, maybe," he murmured.

"I won't play the what-if game with you, Tony."

"And I don't want you to." He shrugged. "I'm just saying that Elle shouldn't be back. Besides the physical trauma, from what you've said, she hasn't begun to deal with all the mental crap. Being targeted by a killer. A nutcase. Check." Tony counted off the similarities between his case and Hotch's teammate's. "Being attacked in a place you felt safe – or should have felt safe. Also check." He held up his thumb and forefinger a couple of millimeters apart. "Coming this close to dying. Yep, that one, too." He stopped Hotch with one hand on his arm. "Don't let her try to bury everything and pretend it didn't happen."

Aaron's eyes were wide, shadowed with grief or anger or something Tony didn't understand. "That's just it – she hasn't buried anything. She pretends she's fine, but we can all see the anger, the bitterness. Today, when I told her she needed to see psych, well," he stared back at Tony, inserting a boatload of false humor in his voice, "it didn't go well."

"Ah, hell." Tony's grimace was one part awkwardness and two parts sympathy. "I'd offer a manly hug and a couple of shoulder punches, but I don't think that's going to help."

"Shoulder punches are what I've got Morgan for," Hotch returned, deadpan sarcastic. "How about a change of subject, instead?" He frowned. "What is Shepard doing with your team? Even Strauss is making noises about the lack of administration over at NCIS."

Heading back down the long curved row between headstones, Tony chuckled. "I'd have thought those two would be power lunching all over the District. Two of the most powerful women in federal law enforcement, hell, why aren't they fast friends?"

"Because, even as controlling and exasperating as I find Erin Strauss, she is a good administrator. She understands the way government agencies work and how to work the system. The red tape can either strangle you or you can find a way of dealing with it – get it tangled up out of your way."

"Arts and Crafts with Erin. Sounds like an HGTV show," Tony said with a snort.

"More like True Crime," Aaron offered. "But I think Strauss is currently wondering if she should kick the NCIS director out of the Glass Ceiling club." He sent a sideways glare towards Tony. "Shepard, Tony. You were going to tell me what's going on."

Tony sighed and started at the beginning. "Have you ever heard of an arms' dealer named Rene Benoit?"

The FBI agent stayed quiet while Tony told him about the Grenouille op. About Jeanne Benoit, the innocent daughter Tony was supposed to get close to. About how he'd been working after hours and on weekends, with no back-up and no dedicated undercover identity beyond a driver's license and some on-line credentials. The more Tony talked, the more he listened to the words coming out of his own mouth, the more he realized how stupid the operation was – how hung out to dry he would be if anything went wrong. How easily someone with Rene Benoit's connections could figure out who exactly was romancing his only daughter.

"Have you considered that is precisely what Shepard is counting on?"

Tony stopped dead as Aaron's words slapped across his awareness like a wet towel. He turned, frowning. "What?"

Hotchner held up a hand. "Bear with me. If I was profiling Director Shepard, I'd say there's an unhealthy obsession here, way out of bounds of how a law enforcement professional should be dealing with someone of Benoit's power and reputation. This op is 'off the books,' and she's admitted that to you in every way except for coming out and saying it." He counted on his fingers. "No back-up. No reading in your team. No undercover identity that would pass the least bit of scrutiny. No reports." He shook his head. "If The Frog suspects you – and a man like him would suspect anyone coming into his daughter's life – and looks behind the curtain, he'll know exactly who is pulling the strings." Head cocked, Aaron stared. "These two have history of some sort – she wants him to know she's coming for him by using you, someone from her own agency. And, if you happen to get killed while on this assignment," he shrugged, "she'll take him down for that with the entire force of NCIS behind her to avenge you."

Tony felt the shock and horror on his face as Hotch's words confirmed that niggling worry he'd admitted to himself in the NCIS men's room. "Okay, that's just nuts. Shepard may be a little twisted, but she's not one of your unsubs."

If it was possible, Hotchner's voice dropped even lower. "No, she's not. She's not an unknown subject. But she is targeting one of my friends and that's going to stop. Immediately."

"Aaron," Tony grabbed the man's arm, "she offered me a transfer. To Rota, Spain. To head up the office there." Eyebrows rising, he tried to get through to Hotchner. "If she was setting me up for The Frog, wouldn’t she want to keep me close and on the op?"

"Tony," Aaron echoed, latching on to connect the two, forearm to forearm, "how long do you think it's going to take for Benoit to ask his daughter about her new boyfriend? Days? A week?" Dark eyes searched Tony's. "Now, do you really believe the long and tangled red tape of that transfer – that kind of bump in pay and responsibility, not to mention moving overseas - can be unknotted in less than three or four months? Months where you'll be completely available to her operation?"

Teeth clenched, Tony stepped back, suddenly angry. "So this was all a set-up. This had nothing to do with how good I am, or how quickly I can get a mark to trust me." The laugh hurt as it clawed its way out. "I was right the first time. This is all about my ego, isn't it? I didn't look any closer, I didn't even consider that Shepard had any other motive than bringing in an arms dealer and saw me as the Wonder Boy of undercover work."

"That's not –"

Tony strode away, not listening, not caring where his legs took him. Aaron caught up but matched Tony's speed and didn't say a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can't thank you enough for your kind comments, kudos, and bookmarks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim's perspective.

Maybe it was the silence. A silence so deep that Tim could hear every tick of the clock behind his left shoulder like the snap of bone or the flick of a knife. Every hunt-and-peck keystroke of Ziva's fingers. Every slide of paper across Gibbs' desk. It was the silence that had curbed Tim's enthusiasm, that had boiled the acid in his gut, and had sent his mind into a tailspin of 'what-ifs' and 'what's-going-ons' and 'what-the-hell-is-Gibbs-doings?'" In the silence of the bullpen, Tim's mind couldn't stop – and he didn't like its conclusions.

It wasn't just that Tony wasn't here. Tim glanced over at the teetering pile on his teammate's desk. If Tony were here it would be louder just from the man's physical presence, like the air around him vibrated with expectation. Instead, the lack of Tony seemed to draw every ounce of energy from the room, not to mention ramping up Tim's tension level until his blood pressure was about to blow the top off of his head.

What the hell was going on?

And it wasn't just his team. Over the dividing wall behind Ziva, Tim could see Balboa and his SFA leaning in together in whispered conversation while they shot curious, annoyed, and frankly WTF glances at the back of Gibbs' head. And every single person who got off the elevator did a double-take. What hit them first was the jumble of stuff on Tony's desk – it was directly in the line of sight when you stepped out of Gibbs' so-called conference room. Tim had seen the look over and over again as agents and office workers arrived. First, a confused frown. Second, wide-eyed fear. Then, a hurried step towards the MCRT bullpen, mouth half-open to ask the obvious question. And, finally, when the person glimpsed the long-haired, mustached Marine sitting in the lead agent's desk, the person would stop, close his or her mouth, and hurry away.

Tim had seen calmer exits from buildings under bomb-threats.

Once Tim recovered from the shock of Gibbs' return, the punch of relief behind his breast-bone that his pseudo-family was reunited, the doubts had set in. How had Gibbs been reinstated so quickly? How had he passed all of his evals and taken back his position without a single clue that it was going to happen? Tim let out a single sigh, glancing up to make sure his boss didn't notice. The NCIS grapevine usually passed on bombshells like this one at warp speed and yet there had not been a hint. Not a breath of a suggestion. Yeah, great investigation skills, Tim, he chided himself. As if the reactions of all of the other agents in the building wasn't a big enough clue. Nobody knew. How was that possible?

Twenty minutes ago, Balboa's team had headed out, the shrill ringing of his SFA's phone splitting the silence and nearly jerking Tim out of his chair. The look on Rick's face as he rounded up his team was odd. He'd met Tim's gaze and held up his hands as if asking what was up. Tim hoped his gaping fish impression had served Balboa well as an answer.

A flicker of color at his screen's taskbar got his attention. Tim clicked to open his inbox.

Six new messages. Huh. He frowned. Three were from HR. One was from Director Shepard. And the last one was a message sent to Gibbs and Tony and CC'd to Tim from Dispatch. He opened that one first. Scanning it quickly, Tim's eyebrows shot up. Well, at least Tim wasn't the only one confused about what was going on. Dispatch had tried to notify Tony about a case and was double-checking because they'd been told to advise Agent Gibbs who didn't appear on any flow-chart or duty roster as an active agent.

The message from the director was fairly simple: setting up a meeting with Tim at 11:30. Tim's stomach gurgled. She'd met with Tony already. Now Tim. If Director Shepard was just announcing Gibbs' return, why didn't she do it here, in the bullpen, where everyone could get the news at the same time? Why these secretive meetings? And where the hell was Tony, anyway?

Tim sent a quick acknowledgment and opened the first email from HR.

_"Tim, it's me. Formerly Very Special Senior Agent DiNozzo. Since I'm supposed to be taking two weeks leave and incommunicado, I'm sending this from Janet Adams' log-in. In case you missed the memo that nobody sent us, Gibbs is back and sitting in my chair."_

"Thank you Captain Obvious," Tim murmured, reaching for a couple of Tums.

_"Yes, it's obvious. I mean, who can miss that furry creature growing on his face? Dad's back. It feels good for a second, doesn't it? But, listen, have you thought about it? Really thought about it? If Gibbs is back as Team Leader, what does that make me? And, since you probably don't give a rat's ass about that, how about how does it affect you? Your promotion? Your raise?"_

Wait. Tim sat back in his chair. They couldn't take away his promotion, could they? Just like that? Weren't there regulations about that? Tim's jaw tightened. Yes, there were. But there were also regulations about the requirements to be considered for Senior Field Agent and Tim knew Shepard had side-stepped those. Six years field experience – Tim wasn't even close. But Director Shepard had told him it didn't matter. That Tim should think of this like a field promotion in the military – sometimes the needs of the moment outweighed the red tape. Tim lifted his chin. Yes, he was confident that the promotion was …

Light reflecting off of grey hair caught Tim's eye. Gibbs. Gibbs was staring at him. And Tim wasn't intimidated. It wasn't the patented glare of last spring; the watery blue eyes didn't instill fear and the need to please, to prove himself. To speak – to act – to stammer an apology. They seemed empty. Flat. But he couldn't look away. A moment later Gibbs' gaze drifted on, never settling, the only expression behind his eyes one of exhaustion. Tim blinked rapidly and bent to read the rest of Tony's email.

_"Now that I've opened that can of worms, let's discuss Gibbs. He's watching you, isn't he?"_

Tim looked up and then back down immediately. He wasn't. Gibbs was reading, calm and patient, without a bit of annoyance or irritation. Tim's stomach gurgled again.

_"He's not? Really? Why not? When has Gibbs ever not known when you were reading a private email on company time? Or checking websites. Or tweaking the outline of your novel? Oh, wait, that was me."_

Huffing in exasperation, Tim scrolled down.

_"Quiz time, Probie. What three things are necessary, what three things have to happen for an agent to return after an injury, Tim? Think about it."_

The email ended. No signature, no nothing. What the hell? Tim opened the next email. Of course. It was Tony again.

_"Have you thought about it or are you now annoyed with me like you've been for the past four months? Unwilling to take a minute to possibly think that I might just have an insight that you should listen to? That my experience in law enforcement, in this very agency, might demand a nibble of respect from you and Ziva?"_

"Get to the point, Tony," Tim frowned, barely whispering.

_"Shall I get to the point? Okay, then. Here goes."_

Tim scrolled down past blank line after blank line.

Finally, bold red letters appeared on Tim's screen.

_"DO NOT GO INTO THE FIELD WITH GIBBS. DOES HE HAVE A WEAPON? WHY?? HAS HE BEEN SIGNED OFF FROM A DEBILITATING HEAD INJURY? WHY?? DID HE PASS HIS EVAL? HOW?? DID HE CALL ZIVA 'KATE' AGAIN TODAY? DON'T GET DEAD, PROBIE, JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE GLAD GIBBS IS BACK AND I'M OUT!!" ___

__Into the field? Gibbs wasn't ready to go into the field. No way. Tim chewed at the hangnail on his left hand, not daring to look up. Gibbs couldn't be cleared already. Overnight. What doctor would do that? Ducky? Tim's eyes widened. Would Ducky do that? That could get him into big trouble. Did Gibbs even have access to a weapon yet?_ _

__Tim clicked on the next email, but this one was, apparently, really from Janet Adams in HR. Strange, it was a note about using accrued leave and sick time before the end of the year. Funny, they usually didn't start sending out those announcements until November._ _

__Wait – Tim went back to Tony's loud, blood-tinged warning. Tony was out? That wasn't why Tim was happy… was it? Tim wasn't mean, petty, and vindictive enough to want Gibbs back just so Tony would get a slap in the face, was he? Tim put his face in his hands and closed his eyes tight. Wasn't he?_ _

__"Agent Gibbs. Why aren't you picking up your phone?"_ _

__Tim's head jerked up at the director's question. The woman was standing in front of Gibbs' desk, her hands on her hips. Tim hadn't even heard her approach._ _

__"My phone hasn't rung," Gibbs stated._ _

__Shepard snorted, fingers flying on the keys of her cell phone. She stared down at it, waiting, the silence of the bull pen around them getting thicker. A moment later, her eyebrows twitched. "I don't understand," she murmured staring down at the inert phone on Gibbs desk._ _

__"Agent McGee," she barked._ _

__"Ma'am?" Tim started up out of his chair._ _

__"Why isn't Agent Gibbs' phone working?"_ _

__"I – uh – I don't –" Of course, someone with a computer sciences degree must be fully versed in every kind of technology, right? Even 1950s tech like a desk phone. Frowning, McGee grabbed the handset from his own phone and hit a few buttons. His frown deepened when he got the recorded 'you've dialed an inactive number' voice._ _

__"Boss?" McGee strode across the bullpen to frown down at Gibbs' desk. "Is that Tony's, ah, did you use the phone on the desk when you, uh, came back or did you –"_ _

__"Got mine out of storage," Gibbs interrupted. "DiNozzo's is on his desk where it belongs." He jerked his chin towards the pile-up on the SFA desk._ _

__Gibbs wheeled his chair out of the way quick when Tim dropped to his knees to crouch under his desk._ _

__"Okay. I see the problem. You've got the phone plugged into the auxiliary computer jack down here, not the phone jack. I'll just –" a snap, a tap, and Gibbs phone started ringing._ _

__The man grabbed at it, staring at the director's not-amused face. "Yeah, Gibbs."_ _

__"Agent Gibbs." Tim could hear Shepard's voice in the bullpen and its tinny echo from the receiver pressed to Gibbs' ear. "Please hang up."_ _

__Gibbs slammed the phone down. It immediately started ringing again. He scowled across the desk._ _

__"That's not me," the director assured him._ _

__Huffing out a breath of exasperation, Gibbs grabbed the handset again. "Gibbs!"_ _

__Still crouching behind Gibbs' desk, Tim could hear this new voice, too._ _

__"Agent Gibbs, this is Janet Adams in HR. I'd like to set up a –"_ _

__Gibbs pulled his phone from his ear and looked at it with contempt before slamming it back down._ _

__"I'll assume that wasn't dispatch." Jenny smiled, a twinkle in her eye that looked very, very wrong from Tim's perspective. "Dispatch has been trying to reach you for half an hour. They eventually gave up and called Balboa's team to the scene of a possible kidnapping."_ _

__"Dispatch?" McGee stood up quickly, the words of Tony's email banging around in his brain. "Shouldn't Tony –" he looked towards the empty SFA desk. "Where is Tony?"_ _

__The slim woman frowned, disapproval written across her face in bold lines. "Apparently, Agent DiNozzo has filed paperwork for a two week leave. I received the forms emailed to me twenty minutes ago. According to the records, he sent the same forms to you, Agent Gibbs."_ _

__Email? To Gibbs? Tim managed to keep himself from laughing out loud. He was kind of afraid it would sound like a giggling toddler._ _

__Gibbs scowled at his computer. "DiNozzo knows better. He would have come to me." He gestured. "McGee. Take care of this."_ _

__Okay, just what was he supposed to take care of, Tim wondered. Gibbs' spotty memory? The fact that, from the look of Gibbs' computer screen, the man hadn't managed to even log in to the NCIS network let alone get into his email or reporting features. The young man leaned over and hit a few keys. "Well, it looks like you're going to have to reset your password, Boss. All of your passwords. It's standard procedure to lock out your log-ins and passwords once you retired, um, left."_ _

__"Take care of it," Gibbs ordered, standing. "I'm going for coffee."_ _

__Yep, and Tim was making the gaping fish-face again, he could feel it. What the hell was going on? What did Gibbs exactly want him to do? Wave a magic wand and make it all go away? Invent a time machine to slide them back four months as if they'd never happened? Gibbs had been hurt, he'd been in a coma, and had awoken with amnesia. Where was his Psych Eval? The sign-off from his doctor and his Field Agent Readiness Evaluation?_ _

__Tim flashed back to Tony's email. _"What three things have to happen before an agent can go back into the field?"__ _

__Holy crap, they couldn't let Gibbs into the field. Especially not with a weapon._ _

__Director Shepard had shifted to block Gibbs' way to the elevator. "Agent Gibbs. I realize you have a lot of minutia to deal with your first day back. Passwords and email and, apparently getting your phone working properly are just the beginning."_ _

__Gibbs' stupid phone was ringing again. As if watching himself do it from miles away, McGee answered it. "Agent Gibbs' phone, McGee speaking."_ _

__"Tim, this is Janet. Can you get out of there? Come down to my office? Or, better yet, make an excuse to leave the office for a few days? Tim?"_ _

__Gibbs and Shepard were arguing._ _

__"What the hell happened to this place while I was gone? And where the hell is DiNozzo?" Gibbs shouted._ _

__"I just told you, Agent DiNozzo has put in for two weeks of leave. I assumed he had spoken with you and had your approval."_ _

__"Well he didn’t! And he hasn't!"_ _

__"Jethro." Jenny moved in close. "Why don't you come up to my office? I'll make some coffee and we'll get building security and personnel on the phone and get all of this straightened out."_ _

__"What about the case?" Ziva stood behind her desk. "We should have been assigned instead of Balboa, yes? Just because Tony has run off like a petulant child doesn't mean we cannot do our jobs." She tilted her chin, meeting Gibbs' glare with her usual arrogance. "We don't need him."_ _

__"What – already?" McGee practically squeaked, his gaze darting back and forth between Gibbs, Shepard and Ziva while he lowered the phone back to the desk. "Has Agent Gibbs been formally reinstated? I mean," he pointed at the phone, "that was HR. I think they want to talk to Agent Gibbs." His mind spun. "They said they're missing his PE and PT forms?"_ _

__Gibbs rolled his eyes. "HR isn't going to keep me from doing my job, McGee," he drawled, laying on the sarcasm. "As soon as I get my weapon, Ziva's right – we should be in rotation –"_ _

__"No."_ _

__McGee's loud interruption surprised everyone to silence. Including himself. He felt the heat of his cheeks, his heart pounding. No. This couldn't be happening._ _

__Gibbs turned on him, glaring. "No?" he seethed._ _

__Holding onto his courage with both hands, Tim shook his head. "I'm sorry, but this isn't right."_ _

__Gibbs took a single step back towards him. Before he could shout or get close enough for a head-slap, McGee straightened his shoulders and returned Gibbs' glare._ _

__"I'm glad you're back, Boss, we all are. But what's going on? Have I been demoted? Has Tony? Or are you and Tony working as partners to lead the MCRT, both as senior agents? Am I still an SFA?"_ _

__The mustached man's expression darkened and twisted. "Worried about your promotion?"_ _

__Anger flared to life in McGee's grumbling stomach. "Yes. I'm human. So shoot me. So human that I'd have appreciated – we'd have appreciated a heads' up on what was happening today instead of walking into a mine field." No, that wasn't too much to ask, you bastard, Tim added on silently. "But, beyond all that, if you don't have a security clearance – and we all know how long that process can take - you can't be involved with crime scenes or evidence, it would taint our investigation."_ _

__"Agent McGee." Shepard's voice was soft and soothing like a mother with a child. "This is a misunderstanding. Let me –"_ _

__"No, ma'am, I don't think it is." McGee moved out from behind Gibbs' desk, into the middle of the bullpen. My God, Tony was right. This was a huge mess. What the hell were Shepard and Gibbs doing? He glanced around, noticing the other agents standing up in their work-spaces for the first time. A lot of intent gazes were being turned in his direction._ _

__"Enough," Gibbs barked. He moved into McGee's space, crowding him. "You tired of following my orders, Agent McGee? 'Cause there's an easy solution for that problem."_ _

__Tim may have quieted his voice, but his stance was rigid, not giving an inch to Gibbs' intimidation tactics. "Gibbs. I am genuinely happy that you're back, but you can't just come in here and throw your weight around, toss our belongings aside, and pretend nothing happened. I thought –" he glanced towards DiNozzo's desk, "- I thought Tony would come back and we'd discuss this, work it out."_ _

__Gibbs nearly growled. "Since when am I a 'let's discuss this' or 'we'll work it out' kind of guy?"_ _

__McGee pursed his lips, considering. "You aren't, but Tony is. And, right now, I'm kicking myself for ever mentioning that he shouldn't try to change things or do anything differently from how you would have wanted them done."_ _

__While Gibbs was chewing that one over, Tim neatly sidestepped him and headed for Shepard._ _

__"Director, I don't think I'm feeling very well. In fact, I definitely think I'm coming down with something. I'd better leave before I spread it all around the agency."_ _

__The director's face was flushed, the muscle in her jaw jumping. Her hands were tight fists at her sides._ _

__"Are you sure that's how you want to play this, Agent McGee? There's sure to be some scrutiny of both your actions and Agent DiNozzo's with both of you abandoning your team at a time like this." Shepard's brows twitched. "Serious repercussions that might impact any temporary or interim promotion that might have been in the works."_ _

__If Tim could feel any sicker without vomiting all over the director's shoes, he couldn't imagine it. Chest rising and falling quickly, he turned on his heel, clicked a few keys on his keyboard to shut down the system, holstered his weapon and grabbed his pack._ _

__"If you'll excuse me, I'd better check on my remaining sick days with HR before I head home." When McGee reached the corner of Ziva's desk, the Mossad liaison's hand shot out and latched onto his elbow._ _

__"What are you doing, McGee?" she hissed. "Gibbs is back and DiNozzo has run away. This is what you wanted, yes? Your position as Senior Field Agent but under a competent agent instead of a party-boy! Why are you chopping waves?"_ _

__She was right. That's exactly what Tim had thought he wanted. "I was wrong," he replied. When she wouldn't let go, Tim loomed over her, using his height and weight against her like he never had before. "First, let go of me. Now."_ _

__Ziva dropped her hand like it was singed._ _

__"Second, you're not an American agent so you have no idea what kind of end-run these two had to do to get Gibbs reinstated without a psych eval or physical training, not to mention any kind of discussion of command levels and pay rates for Tony and me. This –" he gestured wide, encompassing the entire bullpen and getting the attention of every agent, messenger, and copyboy in the place, "- is not legal. It's dangerous. And it's demeaning. And I think NCIS has enough problems being the dismissed little-brother agency in DC without getting caught crapping all over government regulations."_ _

__"Now," Tim's gaze latched back onto Gibbs', "I'm going down to HR to discuss … things. I suggest you do the same, Gibbs."_ _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now that Thanksgiving week is over, on we go. Thank you for your patience!

Aaron pressed the phone to his ear, his gaze fixed on Tony's pasted-on mask through the window of the restaurant. The window's dark glaze emphasized the shadows beneath his friend's eyes, the sharp jut of his bones, and the heaviness that weighed down his shoulders as he chatted to the server. Months of working 20 hours a day with little to no support from his team had left Tony leaner, as if all of the extra flesh had been scraped away. The man had been raw before Gibbs' return, before Shepard's scheme had come to light. Now, Aaron was worried about him. Tony had bounced back from a lot in his life, he'd swallowed down his father's negligence and his mother's death, his fiancée's abrupt departure and his partner's betrayal. But finding that the agency he'd given his sweat, tears, and literal blood to was eager to use him, to set him up for a criminal, it might be enough to break him.

Their journey from Arlington had been quiet. Aaron had driven, leaving Tony's car behind in another parking lot just in case anyone was checking traffic cameras for an errant NCIS agent. Just an everyday occurrence for Tony's team, apparently, using federal resources to keep track of team members. Tony had told him enough stories about Gibbs' impatience and McGee's skill with a keyboard to make him wary. And, at this point, Aaron would believe anything of Jennifer Shepard. He had the sudden urge to get Tony's car towed to the nearest FBI garage and have it gone over for tracking devices and explosives.

He'd suggested that Tony stay with him and Haley for a few days – Haley would love to have someone to feed up and fuss over and Aaron was sure she'd needle Tony into showing her how to make his famous homemade pasta. Having a family around – getting caught up in such normal, everyday routines like taking Jack for a walk and going grocery shopping might help remind Tony that there was an entire world out there beyond NCIS. A world of people grateful for agents like him, for their sacrifices and loyalty. And plenty of agencies and organizations that would greet a resume like his with first-rate offers. 

Tony had replied to Aaron's suggestions with a grunt and a head-shake. Hotch hadn't wanted to push.

Much.

"Jack would love to see you. You make him laugh."

"Yeah, I tend to do that to everyone," Tony had thrown back, the words dark and bitter.

"Tony –"

"Aaron." Tony had shifted, sitting straighter in the front seat of Hotch's car. "Have you considered Jack and Haley at all in this situation? I mean, if you're right, if Shepard is setting me up, that means Benoit could come after me at any time. What if he chooses your house? What if he hurts your family? Do you think I want that kind of guilt piled up on my conscience along with everything else?"

Hotch had pinched his lips together. "You should have nothing on your conscience, Tony. None of this is your fault."

"No, I'm just the idiot who let it happen. Who couldn't open his eyes wide enough to see the set-up he was being led to like a dog on a leash." He'd blown out a frustrated breath and turned away, leaning his head against the passenger window.

Aaron had let it go for a moment, his mind churning with possibilities. It was yet to be determined what kind of danger Tony was in. If he cut off all ties with Dr. Benoit with no explanation, that might ensure a call to daddy to complain about an errant boyfriend. If Tony continued dating her that call could still be prompted at any time, depending on the father/daughter relationship. The only way Hotch could ensure Tony's safety was to get him into protective custody – and that couldn't happen unless the two of them took his story to higher ups. To the Inspector General. Or the Secretary of Defense. Or JAG. He sighed. Erin Strauss would have a stroke.

Glancing across at his friend, Aaron knew Tony wasn't ready for that. Tony had reached out to him as a friend, as a fellow agent who could understand his situation and might offer some advice, not as a fixer, a man with connections to those in high places. Going over Shepard's head – that wasn't Tony's style. And that had made Aaron nervous. He needed to keep Tony close, keep him from the dark thoughts that were swamping him. 

Negotiating the stop and go of Arlington traffic, Aaron couldn't help making connections between Tony and Elle. Both were hurt, both were facing perceived betrayal. He was grateful that Tony was reaching out instead of pushing away. Now if he could only …

Eyes narrowing, Aaron thought of another possibility. "I'm not going to send you off to your apartment – alone – to wait for a killer, Tony. Imagine what that would do to my conscience." Tony had remained silent. "But I do have an idea."

The high-pitched voice sounding from his phone dragged Aaron out of his memory and onto the sunny city street. "Hotch? You there?"

"Yes, sorry, Reid." Aaron turned away from the restaurant window. "So Elle did not show up to her appointment with the psychologist."

"Essentially, yes." The young man's words were rapid, as usual, but Aaron could hear the stress filtered beneath. "She's not answering her phone – actually, she began not answering when Doctor Baxter's office tried to reach her and since then she's turned her phone off. At least, whenever I call it goes straight to voice mail."

"Wonderful," Aaron drawled.

"There's something else." Reid's tone assured that Hotch was going to like his teammate's next statement even less. "Strauss came down here, looking for you. That's what she said, but she didn't even try your office, just came straight to the bullpen. Morgan put her off for now, explaining that we were working the LA case which has gone in a very interesting direction. Did you know that the unsub demanded that the hostages take off all their clothes? The bank manager tried to cover it up, but –"

"Reid." Eyes closed, Hotch tried to imagine how the situation with Elle could get any worse. Avoiding him, his team, avoiding a mandated counseling appointment, and now Strauss was on the warpath. A vague sense of apprehension washed over him. "Reid, did Strauss talk to Gideon?"

"No. Not that I know of. He's locked himself in his office."

Okay. Hotch could work with that. At least Gideon hadn't been forced into a defensive sparring match with Erin Strauss. If the man was angry enough with Hotch's decision he could easily send Strauss into yet another paranoid review of the team, of Elle's situation, and of Aaron's supervision. That was another difference between Strauss and Jennifer Shepard – while Shepard seemed intent on manipulating those in her chain of command, molding them into her personal weapon aimed wherever she pleased, Strauss simply demanded that her teams live up to her high standards of both performance and loyalty. And while Shepard smiled and twisted, over-confident in her abilities, Strauss was continually on the look-out for someone trying to supplant her. Both women were dangerous, but Hotch would take Erin Strauss' suspicion over Shepard's stupidity any day.

"Chief Strauss left after Morgan assured her you were handling Elle's situation. And, well, Gideon has been sending emails with his insights on the case. We're working on it. Honestly, Hotch."

There was a trace of hurt in Reid's statement. Gideon was pouting. Again. Ignoring his protégé. Slinking off by himself to lick his wounded ego. Aaron sighed. He'd get over it. Jason was brilliant – all he had to do was get caught up in the case and he'd be bouncing ideas off of Reid and Morgan and making the kinds of connections between behavior and motivation that he was famous for. But getting him there could be painful.

"Did you talk to him, Spencer? Tell him about our discussion?" The young man paused and Hotch's nerves ramped up. "Reid, there was no reason for you to keep it a secret – Jason knew I was sending Elle to counseling before I left."

"I tried to explain –" 

Aaron could visualize Reid's expression. His high brow furrowed, wide eyes clouded with self-doubt and fear. Fear that the man who had shaped his young life, his career path, and his future like a blacksmith hammering at a nail had abandoned him to the fire. Aaron shook his head. "Reid. I'm sorry, but you know how Jason can get when whatever advice he gives is not immediately taken as gospel. Hopefully, the case will draw him back into the discussion with you and Morgan and JJ. Until then, I wonder if you'd do me a favor."

"Of course. Anything."

For once Aaron was grateful for Reid's eagerness to please. And for Tony's insights about his team's interactions. "Go to Garcia. Ask her to trace Elle's phone if it's on, and to turn it on remotely if it isn't." Thank God for Tony's tales of McGee and his computer skills. If Garcia couldn't out-program the NCIS tech-guru she wasn't the Dark Queen Aaron knew her to be. "We need to find Elle and get someone to her before Chief Strauss can act. We don't want Strauss suspending her – Elle wouldn't respond well to a power play right now. She needs a friend. Someone she feels comfortable being vulnerable with."

"Like Penelope."

Aaron smiled. Reid was quick. "Yes, exactly like Penelope. If she agrees to meet with Penelope – or JJ – someone out of the chain of command, I think I can get Strauss' attention on something else."

"On what?" Reid blurted out, disbelieving.

"I can't discuss –"

Before Aaron could finish his statement, Reid interrupted. "Sorry. None of my business."

"That's not what I was going to say," Aaron assured the younger man. "What I was going to say is that I have to get a friend's permission before I can discuss it – with Strauss or with you. But I'm about to do that." I hope, Aaron added, silently. "If everything goes well, I was wondering if you're up for a house guest for a few days?"

"Hey. Everything okay?"

Tony had apparently gotten tired of waiting. He leaned out of the door of the Italian deli, jacket thrown over his shoulder as if he was ready to head off at a single word from Hotch. Ready to be dismissed, ignored, his problems treated as if they were irritating distractions from his friends' important lives. Aaron wondered – not for the first time – how a genuinely loyal, perceptive, and diligent investigator like Tony could be ignored or slapped down so thoroughly by his misbegotten agency. By Gibbs. By McGee – the man who owed Tony his job and his life. And now by Shepard. He sighed, holding up one hand.

"One more minute and I'm all yours," he promised, flipping the phone away from his mouth. 

"You're busy, Aaron. I can –"

"Not one more word." Aaron pointed to Tony and then to their table through the window. "Order me a piece of tiramisu and coffee. Please." Please, Tony, he urged without a sound – with eyes and hands and body language - let me help.

From the phone he heard Reid and knew the young agent had overheard the short conversation. "If your friend needs a place to stay, I'm happy to help. You have my spare key, go ahead and give it to him."

A rush of gratitude for the young profiler's trust and generosity made Hotch smile. "Thank you, Reid. I'll check in later."

"And I'll let you know how Garcia does with that other matter."

They both hung up with a few habitual words and Aaron moved towards Tony, all but pushing him back into the deli and back to their table. 

"We're not done, Tony. That's what my priority is right now. My team is taking care of it." And Aaron had never been more grateful for his own team of misfits and trouble-magnets. Count your blessings, Aaron, he reminded himself.

Tony huffed out a breath and eyed Aaron, disbelieving. "Is it a case or is it Elle? Or Gideon?"

Aaron caught their server's eye and called the man to their table without a word. "Tiramisu and coffee for two." He leaned forward, elbows on the light pine table as the server moved away. "Tony –"

"Aaron, listen." The smile that flashed across Tony's face was bright and brittle. "You've already wasted enough time on my little freak out. Unit 4 is a busy unit, always called first for the weirdest, ugliest examples of human behavior. The crazies don't care that your team is hurting. What's going on?"

Evade. Distract. Sweep your own needs off the chessboard and set it up for a new game. Aaron was familiar with Tony's gambit. Sighing, Aaron dropped his chin and lowered his voice. "I get it, Tony. You need time. Time to think, to process what I've said and what you may or may not believe. Change the subject, deflect, dance around the issues and pretend you're not bleeding out internally because of all the crap that's come to light this morning." He waited, watching as Tony closed down. Inch by inch, muscle by muscle, the man turned from open, angry, honest friend to closed-off, bland-faced automaton. Aaron reached out, gripping the other man's wrist before Tony could pull away. "Tony. I'm sorry. I'm sorry to be the one to put this situation into words, to give voice to the facts you already knew, to turn your worst suspicions into reality. But I'm not going away, I'm not going to leave you to yourself to figure out where to go from here. And I'm not going to let you run away. Not this time."

Motionless, his intent gaze dimming to murky green, Tony answered. "It's worked for me before."

"No," Hotch insisted. "It hasn't worked. It's worked for others – for the idiots in Peoria who didn't see your potential. For the white collar crime task force in Philadelphia who needed to appease a federal prosecutor and let Geordie Macaluso off if he turned state's witness. And it worked for your dirty partner in Baltimore. But you?" Hotch squeezed Tony's wrist before letting go. "Running has hurt you. It's made you dive deeper behind your frat-boy and ladies-man images. It's forced you to give up homes and families and settle for surface relationships because you couldn't trust this job, this set of so-called friends to last. It has clawed at your spirit, undermined your natural gifts, your self-confidence, and your ability to thrive, not just to survive."

"I'm not a victim, Aaron." Fire lit Tony's eyes back to life. "I'm a professional. A federal agent."

"And a damned good one. A great investigator and, yes, an outstanding undercover agent. One who shouldn't be shafted by the very agency he's dedicated the past six years of his life to." Hotch leaned closer. "Even if you run, if you resign and try to get a transfer to another agency, what about the next guy? The next agent who runs up against Shepard's obsession or Gibbs' arrogance?"

"What if I don't think that's my problem?"

Aaron stared straight through Tony's mask, down into the soul of him. "The simple way you ask that question tells me you are concerned about it – that you do, on some level, think it's your problem. And, even if you run, the consequences will follow you just like they have from Philadelphia and Baltimore."

Tony groaned, leaning back in his chair just in time for the server to slide the pot of coffee, cups and condiments, and two plates of tiramisu between them. Taking some time to fix his coffee, to adjust his silverware, and to take a bite, Aaron let Tony stew. His friend did need to process, to let the thoughts and suspicions and hurt shake around in his conscious mind. To dig deeper than the pain and personal betrayal into an investigator's cache of resilience and determination to get to the truth. Tony wouldn't be able to deny it for long. The agent was frowning, staring at his plate like the creamy dessert offended him in some way. 

Taking a long sip of the rich blend, Hotch let his friend think. He had time. Correction, he would make time for this. Someone sure as hell should.

After a few moments, Tony shook his head, like a dog coming out of deep water. He reached for the sugar bowl and tugged his cup closer. "What a mess," he murmured. "I don't even know where to start to untangle this."

"I have a few ideas." Hotch smiled, his cup at his lips. "Want to hear them?"

Eyebrows raised in mock disdain, Tony made a 'give' gesture with one hand while he shoved a huge bite of cake into his mouth.

"First, just how pissed off would your team be if you disappeared for a few days?"

Nearly choking, Tony laughed and wiped his mouth. "On a scale of one to ten, about twenty-seven."

"That sounds like a good start."

Tony pointed with his messy fork. "I told you, I'm not going to your house."

"I agree." Hotch savored the surprise on the other agent's face for a moment. "A member of my team has volunteered to share his bachelor apartment with a friend of mine. He's a trained federal agent with no personal ties for Benoit – or your team – to exploit in order to get to you. I'll warn you, he doesn't have a lot of creature comforts, but it would be the last place for someone to look for you."

Aaron watched Tony's expression twist from surprise to denial to suspicion and then back to surprise. He'd clearly wanted to refuse, to insist on standing on his own two very independent feet, but now Tony's curiosity had been aroused.

Counting on his fingers, Tony put the pieces together. "A bachelor, lives in an apartment, without close ties. Well, it couldn't be Morgan because the man has a house and a dog and a family in Chicago." And you don't hate me enough to send me to Gideon's." Tony shivered dramatically. "One of us would be dead within two hours. So – Reid? Genius Reid?" Tony's eyes glittered and the smile curling up the edges of his mouth was open and sincere. "I get to spend a few days with the guy who spiked Philip Dowd between the eyes and came up with the answers to all of Garner's ridiculous puzzles? Count me in."

A weight lifting from his shoulders, Hotch laughed. "I'm going to regret this, aren't I?"

"You have no idea," Tony chuckled around another mouthful of tiramisu.

With a nod, Hotch reached for his phone and dialed a familiar number.


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn't right. Nothing was right.

Gibbs leaned on the railing and let his gaze drift across the MCRT desks and those beyond. He thought he'd fixed it, thought he'd put everything right, like it always had been. He'd come in early, met Shepard at the Navy Yard gate and was soothed by memories of her skin, her hair, and her voice in his ear. Familiar orange walls greeted him, the hum of the Caff-Pow machine in the garage, the smell of the place, the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows – they all slotted smoothly into memory.

He'd passed the first desk, the image of a female agent there unsteady. Changing. Dark hair. Curly auburn. A slender woman, frowning, a silver crucifix around her neck. Longer hair, pulled back, a Cross of David gleaming against her skin. Which one? He'd turned away. 

The desk across the aisle shimmered with moving images of one man – a straight back, bright smile, old eyes in a young face, shaded with ghosts behind their intent gaze. The form of this agent burned with life, with insight, with a willing spirit.

Gibbs had moved on to his own desk. It had been wrong – too cluttered. A Mighty Mouse stapler sitting atop a haphazard pile of open case reports. No. That was DiNozzo's. Gibbs had stopped in the middle of the bullpen, thoughts racing as he'd turned to glare at the SFA desk and a computer set-up that obviously belonged to McGee. 

Those things didn't belong. The images didn't match. One more turn had Gibbs frowning at the junior agent's desk. A pale face, hair cut military short, flickered above fingers busy at the keyboard in his memory, the image awkward and sincere. The names and figures slotted into place as Gibbs took another look around. McGee. DiNozzo. Kate – no, not Kate. Ziva, now. A frisson of loss crept up Gibbs' back like ice against his spine. Time to put them where they belonged and nail them in place before they flickered again.

Gibbs had moved quickly towards DiNozzo's desk, first unplugging McGee's tech from the surge protector and setting all the gizmos, keyboards, monitors, and all the other things that were wired together onto the desk chair to move in one piece to the junior agent's desk. He yanked out the desk drawers and slammed them into the correct desk, tossing the extras onto the empty desk behind the divider. McGee's extra crap was set in a pile on the man's chair.

Then it had been DiNozzo's turn. Irritated, Gibbs hadn't been as gentle with his senior agent's stuff. Files and folders, pencils and pens, two mugs, far too much candy for an adult, and handfuls of personal crap fueled Gibbs' anger and resentment. How the hell had the man dug in so tight after only four months? The last few items Gibbs simply threw towards the SFA desk, no longer caring where they landed.

Finally, Gibbs' desk had been emptied, his file cabinets cleared of moronic bobble heads and stashes of clothes that Gibbs wouldn't be caught dead in. With a nod, Gibbs had stalked down to Storage and grabbed the boxes gathering dust there, his name scrawled across the ends in a familiar hand. In half an hour his desk had been just as he'd left it. He'd sat, adjusting the angle of his main computer monitor, still showing the start-up screen, checked the number of small notebooks in his second drawer, and then laid the engraved flask in his center drawer, his fingers flat against the words for a moment before he slammed the drawer closed.

_"Time to get to work, Probie."_ A half-smile had tugged at Gibbs' lips at the familiar raspy voice in his memory. Mike Franks had been a good boss and a good friend. He'd taught a raw, bitter, angry Marine how to be an investigator. Taught him how to set up his desk, how to write a report, how to set his priorities and put together clues to put away the bad guys. Mike had shown Gibbs his own desk, his taste in coffee, his truck, and his filing system and Gibbs had never imagined that there could be a better way. Memories of their time in Mexico had given way – eventually – to cases, to long nights on stake-outs, gun battles, and sweaty interrogation rooms. When Gibbs thought of NCIS, of his job, he couldn't help but think of Franks.

Franks would have approved of what Gibbs had done that morning. How he'd stepped back in time to make sure the MCRT was as it should be. Gibbs had leaned back in his chair and reached for his shield, to put it in his top drawer. Badge and gun in the top drawer – Mike's image frowned at him. His hand had closed on emptiness at his belt. He had to fix that.

Gibbs had been aware that other people had begun moving in his peripheral vision. Balboa always got in early, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. He'd never looked over, intent on his own desk, his own routine. A kid from the mailroom pushed his trolley, one wheel squeaking rhythmically in the silent space. At the other end of the large open room, he'd noticed the admin staff arriving in ones and twos. They didn't matter. Cogs in the machinery of NCIS, they were necessary but unimportant. 

It was time to work, but Gibbs hadn't had a case – a case, a badge, a gun. His computer didn't show the right screen and he couldn't open his email. The mailroom kid had wandered through, never looking up from his cart as he slid a pile of envelopes and inter-office folders onto Gibbs' desk. He'd grabbed the mail, frowning at the wrong name on the labels and reached for his letter opener. With a frustrated huff he perched his reading glasses on his nose.

Fifteen minutes before the hour the elevator bell had sounded and his three agents got off, chattering and laughing. Gibbs had been ready, waiting. It had been time to begin again. Everything had been in place. But when he'd glanced up and took in the happy reactions of two of them, his gaze couldn't seem to leave the pointed, accusing stare of Tony DiNozzo. A sharp, thin knife of doubt slid through Gibbs' gut.

Hands curled around the cool metal railing, Gibbs breathed deep, trying to stir his memories into some kind of order. Ever since the moment this morning that thin blade of doubt had widened, cutting through Gibbs' intentions, his insistence on putting everything – everyone - back into place. It was irritating – infuriating. One look from DiNozzo, one snapped phrase, and then he'd watched the man disappear up the steps taking Gibbs' righteous resolution with him. 

DiNozzo should have fallen into step, taken Gibbs' return with a grin and a thank-you. Called him Boss. Gibbs couldn't have gotten that wrong, those memories of the younger man standing at his shoulder, steady and reliable under fire. He remembered DiNozzo's odd style, the way he danced and feinted in interrogation, always keeping the upper hand. He remembered hauling the kid back from Baltimore when he realized the two could probably work well together. DiNozzo had already been a solid investigator when he'd found him, but he'd grown into something else. Someone else. Someone who had stared at Gibbs this morning, taken in the changes in the bullpen, and then turned his back.

All Gibbs knew was that, as soon as he and DiNozzo had locked eyes this morning, he'd known he was getting something wrong.

And that feeling had only gotten worse.

Jenny had tried to convince him that everything was fine, that she was going to fix it. Misunderstandings. Miscommunication. Paper work and red tape, the government couldn't run without them. But the frequent touch of her hand and her half-lidded gazes were leaving Gibbs' cold, suspicion boiling up where DiNozzo's blade had pierced his bubble of confidence. 

It was already noon and Gibbs was two agents down. He had yet to receive his new credentials, or his firearm, and the desks around the bullpen were emptying. First DiNozzo. Then McGee, after a tirade that Gibbs had never seen coming. Fifteen minutes later two agents from Smith's team had –loudly – declared that they must have caught what McGee had and had taken off. Phones would ring, words mutter in reply, and then another agent or admin would gather up their coats and head out. 

One person remained at her desk, anger and frustration coming off of her in waves. Ziva. The one who'd called him back. The one who had latched onto Gibbs as if he owed her something. Something more than he owed his brighter, sharper memories of Franks. Of DiNozzo. Of McGee. Of his girls. His gut lurched.

"Jethro?"

Jenny Shepard slid close to him on the balcony, the spice of her perfume bitter on the back of Gibbs' tongue. She laid her small hand on top of his white knuckles. Gibbs pulled away.

"I'm going home, Jen."

"What? Why?"

Yeah, it had been a surprise to Gibbs, too. Retreat was not in his vocabulary. But, he shook his head, this wasn't right. DiNozzo didn't take time off. McGee didn't storm out. And Kate wasn't at her desk. Damn it. He closed his eyes, trying to dredge up the right damned faces of his agents, McGee's questions echoing around in his skull. Psych Eval. Physical Proficiency. Security check. He needed – Gibbs needed something to make sense. Someone to sort it all out.

He opened his eyes and stared at the woman next to him. Wrong red-head. Just another faint approximation of what Gibbs had lost. Why had he trusted her? Let himself be led back here? "I need some answers," he stated, turning away.

"Jethro!"

Those answers weren't going to come from Jennifer Shepard.

NCIS-CM-NCIS-CM

Elle lifted her face to the sun, trying to clear her mind of the hammer of voices. Hotch. Reid. Morgan. Her father. Garner's furious, choked words as he shot her. She flinched, suddenly vulnerable on the open patio on the city street. She checked her surroundings, watched each man and woman for signs of danger. She shifted her chair backwards, closer to the brick wall of the coffee shop. It was an awkward position – too far from the table on her left where her coffee sat, cooling, untouched, and too close to the empty chair on her right – but Elle didn't care. Her back was covered, her gun hand free. If the waitress gave her an odd look when she came by, Elle had no problem putting her off with a glare.

Outside was better. Outside in the clear, crisp air where she could watch others going about their lives, their normal, boring, fearless lives. Since Hotch's order, since he'd taken her weapon and turned his back on her, Elle had wandered aimlessly. She didn't think, didn't plan, just let the traffic guide her car and then her feet. She didn't want to think anymore. Didn't want to feel. She just wanted the voices to stop.

She'd shut off the ringer on her phone after Reid's third call. She didn't want to talk, especially not to the skinny little jerk who had outed her to their boss. Morgan had been the next to try. Morgan. Elle shook her head. Even with all his muscles and a protective streak a mile wide, Morgan hadn't been able to save her. She tasted the bitterness on her tongue and knew it wasn't fair. Blaming the others. Hotch. Reid. Morgan. But fair didn't matter, not now. All that mattered was Elle's survival.

Elle Greenaway was a survivor. She'd made her own way in the world, trampled the people who wouldn't get out of her way, demanded respect and advancement, and figured out a way to get Gideon to give her a place on Unit 4 of the BAU. She'd survived her father's death, her own guilt and grief, and her mother's depression. Chin lifting in an unconscious gesture, Elle sat a little straighter. She didn't need her boss or a therapist or her do-gooder of a teammate to "fix" her. What Elle needed was room to breathe and a safe place to stand while she figured it all out. And Elle's safe place was her desk at the BAU, the passenger seat of the team's Suburban, moving shoulder-to-shoulder with Morgan through the darkness to take down the unsubs.

She needed her job, damn it. As strange as it may seem to these so-called normal people around her, Elle needed the hunt, the gut twisting crime scenes, the deep dive into criminal behavior, discussing horrors in the conference room with her teammates. Sitting there, files spread out around them, surrounded by cups of cold coffee, empty take-out containers, and each other's insights, nothing could touch her. Hotch's stern control, Gideon's professorial questions, Reid's facts and figures, even Garcia's points of light shining through the thick haze of atrocities that weighed them down – they didn’t leave room for fear. For personal trauma. For bad memories – all the things that Elle wouldn't – couldn't – deal with. 

A loud crack made her jump and then bend quickly, right hand at her ankle. Her back-up gun was there, a heavy comfort against skin and bone. Elle jerked her head around, eyes narrowed, searching out the danger. Why weren't the people running? Screaming? Were Quantico residents so used to violence that a gunshot didn't affect them anymore? The two women to her right glanced her way, frowning, and then leaned together over the table, whispering. She glanced left. A Fed Ex truck had pulled up to the building next door, the driver looking sheepishly around as he tried to wrestle the metal dolly up from the sidewalk where he'd dropped it. 

Lips pressed together over clenched teeth, Elle unfolded from her crouch in the uncomfortable chair, hands in her lap. They were shaking. She was shaking. Adrenaline, she told herself. Just adrenaline. Blinking stupid, unwanted tears from her eyes, Elle muttered curses, damning every single person who would look on her with pity. With sympathy. Snarling, she stood, feet tangling with the chair's legs as she stumbled away. 

Wouldn't Hotch and Morgan laugh if they could see her now, hurrying away from a scary metal hand truck as if the hounds of hell were after her. All those scumbags she'd put behind bars, Elle could imagine the cat-calls, the hoots and insults. Some strong woman she turned out to be. Wouldn't her father laugh, the man who had stood up to an armed gunman and given his life to save others. She could imagine the disappointment on his face. 

"Elle? Hey, are you okay?"

A soft touch on her arm stopped Elle in mid-stride. Lurching sideways, she eyed the other woman. "Garcia?"

The blonde computer whiz peered through bright purple framed glasses, two heavy shopping bags hanging from one elbow. "I was just out picking up lunch and –"

"Right. Sure you were," Elle interrupted, arms crossed over her chest. "Don't give me that crap, you traced my phone."

Garcia didn't even try to look ashamed. She nodded, frowning. "I did. I'm not afraid to tell you that I'm worried about you."

"Well you shouldn't be – worried, I mean. I can take care of myself." Damned right, she could. And the sooner the others realized that she wouldn't be coddled, wouldn't be pushed off to the sidelines, the better. Anger seared away the unwanted images of her father's face, the sound of laughter, the smell of her own blood.

"Oh, I know that." Garcia made a huffing sound, waving one hand in the air. "But that doesn't mean I'm not going to worry. That I'm not going to do whatever I can for you. I mean, why would it? You see," she smiled, leaning in as if telling Elle a secret, "you may not have noticed, but I'm completely terrible at not caring about people. Everybody, really." Rings on many of her fingers catching the bright sunlight, Garcia pointed at Elle. "And you, my dear, are on my radar. So, unfortunately for you, I'm going to worry, and care, and interfere, so you should probably just get used to it."

Elle's mouth dropped open. This woman couldn't just – this was ridiculous. "No, that's not –"

Garcia hooked one arm through Elle's, steering her along the street. "Now, we'll just go put these sandwiches in my car and head over to that cute little pub across the street and have a talk. Here, you take this one." She handed off a bag to Elle.

To her own surprise, Elle took it.

"That's right. Here we go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best readers ever! Thank you all for your bookmarks, comments, and kudos!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for your patience. It's been a rough season - busy happy, busy unhappy, rinse and repeat - and I didn't mean to leave this story hanging for so long. Your comments and kudos and bookmarks are so welcome and I'm very grateful for each one! I hope I get to answer them all, but, for now, please have a new chapter. Another one to be uploaded this week.

Tim stomped on the brakes, his car screeching to a stop at an awkward angle in the left turn lane and causing an eruption of horns from all around him. Heart thumping, he released his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel finger by finger. He was fine, it was fine, no harm done. Tim kept his eyes focused straight ahead on the accusing red light – he didn't want to accidentally glance around and meet the other drivers' eyes, and watch their lips – and fingers - move in familiar patterns. No, thank you. He'd rather pretend he was paying attention, that the past few streets were not a blur to him as his mind tried to sort out what he'd learned in the past hour. 

He hoped he hadn't run over any cats or old ladies while driving blindly away from the Navy Yard. 

Janet had been helpful. If, Tim sighed, being helpful meant telling him how screwed he was now that Gibbs was back and Director Shepard was pretending that the past few months had never happened. The director had insisted that Janet and the HR department somehow turn back the clock and take both Tony's and Tim's promotions and throw them in the trash. Tim had been so angry that he'd been stuttering incoherently in the HR office.

"Tim, calm down. Have a seat."

Janet had made him a cup of tea and set it on the edge of her desk with more of a thud than a clink. She was frowning, her mouth a thin line. He could see the exasperation on her face, hear the exhaustion in her voice. He'd heard that kind of thing before and knew exactly what it meant. 

Tim had shut his eyes, fisted his hands at his sides, and tried to pull himself together. A sudden vision of his eight-year-old self standing just this way in his father's study, his shoulders up around his ears, washed over him. The attitude expected in the McGee household had been one of stoicism. Of grace under pressure. It was how the admiral expected his children to react to difficulties. His sister Sarah had been better at it than Tim. Tim had tried – he really had – but when things went wrong, Tim's mind spun, worried at the problem, and imagined scenario after scenario, ratcheting up the tension until he blew up. 

So, yes, he'd seen that same mixture of patience and annoyance on his father's face many times. It didn't make it any easier.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, anger rising instead of easing. "You're already dealing with ridiculous demands and I'm not helping. I know that. But, hey, I'm not Tony. Things don't just slide off my back. I don't know how to do that."

Janet raised dark eyes to Tim's. "I know you don't want to hear it right now, Tim, but nothing is sliding here. Look around." She tapped the pile of paperwork on her desk. "This situation is not a simple misunderstanding, or a minor irritation. It's not just a director not comprehending policy. It is far darker, and Tony is in deeper than anyone else, deeper than you realize." She studied him for a moment. "Let's sit down and discuss this. We need a game plan."

"What possible game plan is going to survive Gibbs!" he'd replied, hands flailing. "I shouldn't be surprised. Of course he's back! It's not like anyone expected him to stay away forever." Tim's mind shuffled data cards: Gibbs' personality, his attitudes, his interactions with the team, with Tim, with anyone who tried to get in his way, to get in the way of how he wanted to do things. "He wants his job and his desk and everything back the way it was when he left. If he had the power to change the calendar back to the day he walked out, he'd be doing it. But –" Tim had stammered to a stop, his shoulders drooping. All of his anger, his righteous indignation, suddenly replaced by dejection. He'd slumped into the chair across Janet's desk. "But I guess I am. Surprised. I wanted that promotion. I deserved it."

"You didn't."

Tim's head snapped up, fire in his gut.

"Tim." Janet had shaken her head, not unkindly.

Oh, great, now she reminded Tim of his grandmother, Penny. Smarter than everybody else in the room, but gentle with their stupidity.

"Tim, you know you didn't deserve that promotion. You were dragged up the ladder over the backs of agents who have been waiting for an SFA position to open up for months – sometimes years." Janet had shifted the files on her desk and opened a folder that Tim could tell had his name on it. "You don't have the years or the experience to be an SFA. And, frankly, your promotion is probably the one thing that Shepard can dial back without consequences to her."

"Just to me. Great."

Janet had looked up from Tim's personnel file. Her eyes had been alight, but Tim couldn't figure out if it was with anger or amusement. 

He'd sat up, tugging his jacket straight. "Great," he repeated, with a hell of a lot more bite. "I'm so glad this makes you laugh. I'm sure the other agents up there are snickering their heads off that I tried to tell Gibbs off. And you and Tony can have a good chuckle about this –"

The older woman was unmoving – like a glacier. Cold and solid and intimidating without a raised voice or angry gesture. "Stop it. You sound like a child. What happened to the man who walked in here full of steam and railing about sending an agent out into the field when he hasn't been cleared by psych? What happened to worrying about other agents, or civilians, who might get in Gibbs' way when he can't remember where to point his gun? About proper back-up in life threatening situations?"

"I am worried about that," Tim shot back, his chin high. 

"Good. You should be."

Something in Janet's voice rang a warning bell. "Are you – are we still talking about Gibbs?"

The woman was struggling with something. Something beyond pay scales and organizational flow charts and promotion schedules. Frowning, Tim quelled the defensive anger that was ready to spill out again. He prodded the investigator within him, dragging his left brain back into play. Janet had already given him clues. Said things without saying them.

It was time for Tim to catch up.

"Okay, first you said that nothing was sliding. That was in answer to my remark that Tony lets everything slide off of his back. So this is about Tony. And, I'm guessing, has nothing to do with his promotion." Tim's fingers drummed on his knees as if he was typing information into a spreadsheet. "You said that Tony was stuck in something deep and dark. And now we're talking about not having proper back-up in life threatening situations." The facts shifted, the puzzle pieces turning and twisting to try to make a new pattern. The past four months had been hard for all of them, but, if Tim was honest with himself, it was Tony's life that had changed the most. Thrust into Gibbs' position without his mentor to guide him – without anyone from management giving him any help and no change in the team's case-load. He'd been sent away to inter-agency conferences, dragged from the middle of hot cases to the director's office too many times to count. Time after time Tim had hurried into work – late again – to find Tony slumped over his desk masking obvious exhaustion with a grin and an irritating comment. 

"It's more than the promotion," Tim stated slowly, puzzle pieces shifting, twisting, sinking into place. More than Tim, much more than Ziva, Tony's world had shifted, its foundation heading off to Mexico without any more than a "you'll do." Tim's gut clenched, channeling his teammate's pain. And Tony had been alone with that pain, shut off from the other two members of the MCRT. Isolated. Tim frowned. Unlike Gibbs, Tony was not by nature solitary or close-mouthed. And yet, when was the last time Tony had said anything about the job, about his responsibilities, about anything?

"Tony's involved in something. Something he hasn't told me about." He watched Janet's face, wishing he had his teammate's skill at reading people. Tim's one saving hope was that it seemed like Janet wanted him to figure it out. "Probably not Ziva either."

"Definitely not Ziva," Janet snapped. She shook her head at her own words. "Damn it." She leaned closer. "This is not my story to tell, Tim."

"Okay." It was ridiculous, but Tim felt a little better that Ziva didn't know, either. That she was as in the dark as he was. It was worse for Ziva, since there was no way Janet was going to seek her out and give her any hints. The Mossad agent did not make friends easily. Tim frowned. That might have something to do with the fact that Ziva respected no one but Gibbs – and made that fact perfectly clear to everyone else at NCIS.

"So." Tim sniffed, nodding. "I'm probably going to lose my promotion. Okay. Let's put that aside for a minute. It sounds like the next thing I should do is talk to Tony."

"You should. You definitely should," Janet agreed. "But there are other things to consider."

"Like making sure nobody goes out into the field with an agent who has not passed either a physical assessment or a psychological evaluation." 

"Exactly." Janet tapped her desk phone. "Do you think anyone else should know about this situation, Agent McGee? Anyone who might be partnered with the MCRT while they are two men down?"

For the next few minutes, Tim had made calls. To Balboa. To Jenkins. To every team lead or SFA in the bullpen. He didn't tell them what to do, or advise them in any way. He made his calls chatty, channeling his inner DiNozzo, sharing the news that Gibbs was back but, apparently, he didn't have credentials or paperwork filed. Yet. And how great was that? The NCIS staff was pretty quick – they got it. Especially the ones who had been in the open-concept bullpen when Tim and Gibbs had their confrontation.

His last call had been to Tony. He'd sat staring at the phone for long minutes while Janet bustled around him being obvious that she was actively not listening to the conversations he was having. Tim's jaw worked as if trying to process the words before he had to say them, as if practicing would keep him calm and honest and logical when Tim knew that one pointed comment from Tony could derail his best intentions in a heartbeat. Yes, Tony had that ability – the ability to get to the point, to the deep, festering pus beneath whatever surface-confidence Tim plastered over it. Especially when he was stressed. When Tony was stressed his fun-guy-to-be-around persona was taken over by the sarcastic-brilliant-come-back guy. 

Tony had picked up. Tim had sighed a huge breath of relief, happy that at least Tony was going to talk to him.

His relief hadn't lasted long.

"I'm a little busy right now, McGee."

Not a perfect greeting, but at least Tim got a greeting, not an immediate transfer to voice mail.

"We need to talk, Tony." Tim had closed his eyes and pressed the palm of his hand over his eyes. Awesome. A petulant demand was a great way to open lines of communication.

"Do we now?"

Tim had pressed his lips together and gave himself a moment to regroup. "What I meant to say was, I'd really like to talk to you if you have time. I'm taking some time off, so –"

"You are?" Tony still sounded cautious. Disbelieving. 

"Yes. In fact, there seems to be a flu making its way around the office. Janet tells me a lot of people are leaving."

Janet had been staring at Tim, eyes bright and her lips curled up in a smile.

"She does, does she?"

Tim could hear Tony's mind working, racing along its tracks like an Acela train, ready to shoot off in any direction.

"Yes. So, can we talk?" Tim had bunched his hands into fists, anxiety rising. What if Tony said no?

"No." The sound had been muffled, like Tony had put his hand over the microphone, the distant voices obviously Tony and another man. Tim waited, impatient, his stomach churning. "I mean, yes, but I've got some things to do."

"Tony?" It sounded like whatever was happening in the background was claiming Tony's attention. "How about if I come over? I mean, we should get our –"

"Listen, Tim, I've got to go. I'll call you, okay?"

"Tony?" Tim stood, frowning. This didn't sound good. Something was happening. His heart beating faster, Tim had shouted his teammate's name. "Tony!" The sound of dead-air was all that he'd heard.

Janet's face was pale when he'd turned back to her. "What's going on?"

"I don't know." Tim had pocketed his phone and grabbed a few of the papers Janet had printed off for him. "I've – I'd better head over to Tony's place. He sounded –"

"What? He sounded what, Tim?"

Tim had shaken his head. "Distracted. I don't know." He'd met Janet, stare for stare. "But if he's involved in something bad, I want to be there for him."

"Good for you," the older woman had agreed. "Call my cell phone if you need anything. I've already got a meeting with the IG set up for this afternoon."

As Tim had turned to head out the door, she'd called him back. "Tim, if you need help, I want you to remember that you have friends. And resources. You and Tony, both."

"Thanks, Janet."

More blaring horns shook Tim out of his fugue and he blinked at the green arrow in front of him. "Okay, okay," he muttered, hitting the gas. He managed to finish the drive to Tony's apartment without falling back into his memories. 

Tony was fine. Tony was always fine, he reminded himself. Chained to a serial killer. Drugged and left in a sewer. Lying in a hospital bed with the plague. Locked in a shipping container. Tony would get knocked down and come up smiling and ready for more. It was annoying. Tim had never been good at bouncing back, at letting difficult things go. His memories were intense, full-color and Sensaround scenes that had him lying in bed at night chewing over every word, every movement, every insult or hurt, the eyes of the people he'd shot, the sound of a bullet hitting flesh, the smell of gunpowder. But Tony? Tony was bulletproof. And, try as he might, that was something Tim couldn't figure out.

Tim dropped his keys in Tony's elevator when his phone rang. Abby. He stared at the caller ID, willing it to change, to become literally anyone else in the world. His mind weaved memory into an image of her, creating the lab, the gorgeous Goth, jangling chains, and blaring music. Gibbs was back so Abby should be happy, joyful-super-Abby-hyper and demanding everyone else match her level of excitement. And then she'd find out that Tony and Tim had left – and that Tim had a shouting match with the Boss in the bullpen. Tim closed his eyes and shut his phone with a snap. "So, basically, I'm dead," he muttered to himself just as the elevator door opened.

"Well, I certainly hope not."

The man's amused half-smile struck Tim first. Or maybe it was the French accent. Or the cost-more-than-Tim's-car coat. No, definitely the smile. It reminded him of Tony, somehow. Surface laughter spread thinly across a deeper, more dangerous attitude lurking just behind the eyes.

"Sorry." Tim hurried to get out of the other man's way.

"It is nothing." The older man's dark eyes crinkled but Tim was pretty sure that wasn't particularly friendly, either. "I am doomed to be unsuccessful today it seems." The Frenchman sighed. "I was looking for Professor DiNardo, but he does not seem to be home. And I cannot find anyone who knows him." The man stepped closer. "Perhaps you can help me?"


	11. Chapter 11

Tony stopped with one hand on Aaron's car door. His phone was ringing. Not his usual phone, not the phone he used for work, the one the director and Tim and Abby and Ziva had all rung within the past hour and a half. This was his other phone. The one only a couple of people had the number for.

Tony DiNardo's phone.

He dug it out of his pants' pocket and stared at it. Jeanne. Jeanne was calling him. 

"Tony?"

Aaron was frowning across the top of his car, clearly picking up the signals Tony was throwing off. Mimicking Aaron's gesture of a few minutes ago, Tony held up one hand and turned away, putting the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Tony, I'm so glad I caught you." Jeanne's voice was low and rushed, as if she didn't want any of her co-workers to hear what she was saying. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel tonight. I'm so sorry, I know it's hard work to date a medical resident as it is, but –"

"Hey," Tony slid into the DiNardo personality without a ripple, "nothing about you makes dating hard, Doctor Benoit."

She laughed. "That's very sweet, even if I know you're lying."

Tony didn't let his undercover personality slip, even if the woman's unintentional slam hit home. "Just tell me why I won't get to show off the loveliest lady to the city's splendor tonight."

"Don't you mean show off the city's splendor to the lady?"

"No, I do not," he insisted. "Cities come and go, but lovely ladies are always to be appreciated."

Jeanne sighed. "You're just making this harder."

"I'm sorry." Tony smiled. The relief of not having to decide whether or not to drop Jeanne like a hot rock immediately easing some of the weight from his shoulders. "You were saying? Sixteen car pile-up on the beltway? A rush of vampires in the blood bank? Doctor Sexy needs help finding his curling iron?"

Jeanne's laugh was light and bubbly. Innocent. "You watch too many movies, Tony."

"Mea culpa," he replied. "It may warp my sensibilities but it helps keep the lights on at casa DiNardo."

"I'm afraid this time it isn't anything that exciting, just an unexpected visit from my father. I see him so seldom that I would feel terrible begging off spending time with him to have a much more enjoyable dinner with you."

Tony's gaze snapped to Aaron's and the other man was around the car in an instant. "Family." He managed to hide his concern with an exaggerated sigh. "You can move out, but they always end up finding you, don't they. I hope this will give me a free pass if my own pater familias ever pulls himself away from step-mom number five and comes calling."

"Free pass gladly given," Jeanne replied, her relief obvious. She hesitated. "So, you're not mad?"

"Of course not," Tony said. "Just make sure he takes you somewhere decadent. And don't wear that dress," he added.

"What dress?"

"The dress you were planning on wearing tonight. I don't want to miss it."

Her voice was warm. "Promise. Call me tomorrow?"

"I will," Tony lied. It was easy to lie to Jeanne. Too easy. "How long will your dad be in town?" A little more intel, just a little more, he pleaded silently. "Where is he staying?"

"Hmm. I'm not sure."

He could tell that her attention was already being demanded at the busy hospital.

"I just mean, is he going to want to see you every day? On the weekend? Drag you away to the Caribbean for some sun and sand?" Tony did his best Robin Leach impression, trying to cover up his need to know just why Rene Benoit had decided to visit his only daughter now. 

"Nothing like that," she assured him. "My father and I don't exactly run in the same circles. So I'll see him tonight and I'm sure that tomorrow he'll be flying away to some exotic location."

"Huh," Tony chuckled, "we should trade father stories sometime. Sounds like those two would hit it off."

Aaron grabbed his arm, his dark stare drawing Tony's attention away from the ease of DiNardo back to DiNozzo the investigator. The profiler was mouthing words at him, clear and precise.

_Hang up. Now. Time to go._

"Hey, I've got to run –"

"- I'd better get back –"

Their laughter was mutual and Tony was able to hang up on good terms with the doctor moments later.

"What?" he demanded as Aaron dragged him back to the car and practically shoved him into the passenger seat.

"We're going to Quantico," Aaron bit out. "Right now."

"Quantico? I thought we were headed to my place to pick up some stuff –"

The squeal of tires as Aaron pulled out of the parking lot told Tony just how upset his friend was. "Rene Benoit is in town. Gibbs is back, your director is looking to have you killed, your team is a mess, and now, coincidentally, one of the biggest arms dealers on our radar is in DC." Aaron didn't bother to look away from the road, but the tightness in his jaw and the fast bark of his words were enough to keep Tony quiet beside him. "We are not taking any chances, Tony. Quantico is the safest place for you right now, and I intend to keep you safe whether you like it or not."

"I don't need protection, Agent Hotchner," Tony snapped. "And I'm going to need some things –"

"What you need," Aaron interrupted, "is some time to wrap your head around this situation and start thinking like the investigator you are. You need access to information you can't get at NCIS, and some rational minds to discuss this with. You need people to have your back and, damn it, to save you from yourself."

"Hey!" Tony leaned forward as far as the seat belt would allow. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Aaron swallowed hard and glanced towards him. "I think I'm a federal agent with access to one of the best technical analysts in the business. I also think that the FBI is the organization that should be charged with finding out if an NCIS agent is in danger from gun runners, especially since his own director is the one who put him there. I think I'm the one you decided to trust with this. Your lawyer. And your friend."

"Yeah, well," Tony crossed his arms and slumped back into the seat. Tony wanted to be angry, to demand that Aaron take him to his car, let him out, let him go and figure this all out on his own, just like he'd always done. Just like he'd been doing for the past four months since Gibbs had left. But, there was that slight warmth blooming in his chest at Aaron's words, the strength of broad shoulders beside him. It felt kind of good. Kind of right. Like an echo of what used to be. "Okay, then."

"Okay then?" Aaron repeated.

"Do you want me to argue with you some more? Because I can do that."

"No, no." Eyes wide, Aaron turned to face the northern Virginia traffic again. "Don't bother."

As the car turned into the gate at the Marine Base, Tony rubbed at the back of his neck. "Doesn't your team already have a case? The weirdo bank robber and naked people?"

"I don't think this case is going to be a difficult one. The behavior is too unique." Aaron gestured that Tony hand over his credentials so that the Marine guards could scan them. "Even with Gideon off his game, Reid and Morgan should have quite a lot of the profile nailed down by now. And then it's up to local law enforcement to do the leg work."

A smile forced its way across Tony's face. "Aw, I thought that's the part that Agent Morgan liked best, kicking in the doors and manhandling the unsubs."

Nodding in response to the Marines' okay, Aaron drove under the rising gate. "I think even Derek needs a break from that now and then. If he didn't he would never have joined the BAU – he'd still be in the bomb squad."

As they rode up in the elevator towards the BAU offices, Tony fidgeted with the visitor's badge he'd clipped to his waist. This was all happening too fast. In a minute he was going to be surrounded by the best profilers in the business. By people who took apart behavior for a living. No mask was going to fool Jason Gideon. Tony dropped his chin and closed his eyes. He really, really didn't want to watch that man peeling away his layers one at a time while making snarky remarks that he pretended were empathetic. Aaron's team was already dealing with Agent Greenaway's problem – shoving Tony DiNozzo and NCIS down their throats wasn't going to make him any friends here.

"I've asked you this before, but I don't mind asking again."

The patient sincerity of Aaron's voice brought Tony's head up. It wasn't the BAU Unit Chief that he faced, it was his friend. A good friend.

"Please trust me, Tony."

"Trust Aaron Hotchner? That's easy," Tony replied. "Trust Jason Gideon and the BAU team? Not quite the same thing."

Aaron nodded as the elevator doors opened. "I get it. But –"

Tony's unmoving stance outside the glass doors of the BAU interrupted whatever Aaron was about to say. 

"One step at a time," Tony insisted, grabbing back the reins of this bucking bronco of a situation from his friend's hands. "Show me a place to sit where I can make some notes and get my head together. Check in with McGee and HR from a secure line. You go take care of your case." At Aaron's scowl, Tony pointed. "You were the one who said Quantico was the safest place for me. So I'll be safe and you'll be doing your job. When that's done, we'll figure out what comes next. Take it or leave it."

The line creasing Aaron's forehead told Tony that he'd made his point. "All right. My office." He pointed back at Tony's chest. "With the door locked. We don't need the members of my team wandering in in ones and twos to see what's going on. Not until you're ready."

"Deal." Tony straightened his shoulders and let his friend usher him through the doors into the profilers' den.

NCIS – CM – NCIS – CM

Spencer's mind flashed through the facts of the case again. Bank robberies. The BAU was seldom called in for bank robberies. There were two very different sets of statistics for those kinds of criminals. One set was the desperate individual looking for the biggest payoff of quick cash with little effort. Show a teller a gun and walk away with up to $10,000 from their cash drawer. They were in and out as quickly as possible, hoping to get away before the inevitable alarm was pulled and the police showed up. In the days of security cameras and exploding dye packs, few petty criminals attempted it. They'd do better holding up a gas station or mugging an individual after a visit to an ATM.

Then there was the other type. The one straight out of a movie. One with know-how and experience, who was organized and patient, had done his homework, checked out bank locations, schedules, and security measures before he struck. He was well armed – a MAC10 was not a weapon for an amateur – and he'd make off with thousands of dollars with little trouble.

At first, it had looked like LA was dealing with one of the second type. At first. 

Spencer stood at the white board in the Unit 4 conference room, marker in his hand. This unsub was devolving. Making the hostages disrobe could have been considered a security measure at first– it would make pursuit very unlikely. But now, now that he was interacting with the hostages – and forcing them to play out highly charged scenes with each other – it had become a signature. A behavior that the unsub was forced to exhibit even if he didn't know why. And it was up to them to figure it out.

Behind him computer keys clicked, fast-forward, rewind, play. Voices were garbled, crying, shouting, the unsubs demands superimposed over the hostages pleas. But the heavy sighs, the tap of fingers, and the squeak of boot soles didn't come from the surveillance tapes, they were constant reminders of his teammate's presence. And his impatience.

Finally, with a huff and the sound of a pen hitting the table, Morgan blew. 

"A bank robber isn't gonna be caught through criminal profiling. Bank robbers are caught through police work. Asking questions. Fingerprints. Matching slugs. Exhaustive examination of methods, of criminal backgrounds, and known associates. By tracing back the money. Eye-witness accounts."

Reid turned in time to watch the frustrated man throw himself backwards in the chair, linking his hands behind his neck.

"What the hell are we doing here, Reid?" He spread his arms wide. "What is the BAU doing?"

"Well, you are painstakingly going through every second of surveillance footage. JJ is doing phone interviews with the witnesses from the first few robberies, and I'm working on both a geographical profile and these notes concerning the last two robberies where the unsub forced his hostages to take off their clothes."

Spencer noticed the tiny changes in Morgan's bearing and facial expressions as his teammate leaned forward. "You know that's not what I mean."

One arm crossed over his waist, Spencer turned back to the board. "I do. And I also know that there's nothing either of us can do to help Elle. Not right now." He stared at the slanting line of his handwriting on the board, trying to focus his mind to the case. To the unsub. To behavior and geography and facts. "Hotch is handling it."

"Hotch took her gun and reported her to Strauss. If that's his idea of 'handling' it …"

Spencer whirled, composure gone. "What did you want him to do, Derek? Ignore it? We all saw it – we all saw that Elle came back too soon, that she's on edge. Ignoring it or, worse, pretending she doesn't have a right to be hurting, that she's a tough-as-nails agent who shouldn't be at all affected by something so horrific is not going to help her." He turned his back on his teammate, his gut still uneasy even if he knew that talking to Hotch had been the right move. He didn't want Derek to see the uncertainty in his eyes. Or the weakness.

"Hey."

Derek could move quietly when he wanted to. His hand on the back of Reid's neck was warm, the grip just tight enough to communicate compassion and friendship. A moment later he'd dropped his hand and bumped his shoulder against Spencer's just hard enough to jostle him.

"I'm not saying that needing help makes Elle, makes anyone in our shoes weak. Hell, I've been in counseling on and off over the years."

Spencer blinked at his teammate. "You have?"

"Oh, hell yeah." Morgan's dark eyes were closed-off, his jaw clenched. He stared straight ahead at the white board, seeing nothing. "After Boston, especially."

"Oh." Boston. The bomber who had taken out six of Morgan's fellow agents. The one Gideon had misjudged, mis-profiled. 

"Yeah, 'oh'," Morgan repeated. "This time, with Randall Garner, I know I came out the least affected of anyone of us. He didn't target me. Not directly. He chose Elle. Gideon at his cabin. Hotch's wife and kid. Garcia." He bumped into Spencer's shoulder again, a little harder. "And you and your mom."

"He was probably afraid of you, afraid of a confrontation," Spencer stated. 

"Afraid of me but not Hotch? Then the man was stupider than I thought." Morgan leaned back to settle against the back of one of the conference room chairs. "What he should have been afraid of was your brain, Doctor Spencer Reid. Your brain, Hotch's rage at the fact that his family was involved, and the way this team will never, ever, ever give up, especially when one of our own has been hurt."

Spencer turned, frowning, to meet Morgan's steady gaze. "Okay, maybe that's true. But our focus shouldn’t stop when we've caught the unsub. Like we're keeping score." He mockingly tallied a number one in the air with his white-board marker. "BAU – 1, Unsub – nothing. If we're a team then we should be a team here, without a case, just as much as we are with one. We should be on each other's sides all the time." He swallowed, trying to rein in his determined words, his enthusiasm. Spencer didn't want to appear emotional, but his emotions were involved – he cared about more than the 'team.' He cared about the individuals that made up the team. He couldn't help it, no matter how Gideon had insisted that he keep his distance. That he compartmentalize not just the unsubs, but the people around him, too. Spencer had done that his entire life and all it had left him was alone. He didn't want to be alone any more.

"I hear you." Morgan stayed quiet for a moment, a tiny crease in his forehead telling Spencer that he was thinking. Thinking hard. "You know I care about you, right, dude?"

Rolling his eyes, Spencer laughed. "Yes, this is not my bid for you to speak your undying friendship, Derek."

"Well, thank God for that." The other profiler flashed a bright smile. A moment later he was serious again. "I think there's a fine line, Reid. A fine line that we have to walk. You're right, Elle needs help and we should have insisted she get it. It's what a friend – what a good teammate would do. But, at the same time, we're taught to prioritize. To work the case in front of us as hard and as long as we can, no matter the cost to ourselves, because we took an oath to protect and to serve. Even if it hurts us."

"'Your honor weighs you down,'" Spencer muttered, facing the white board once again.

"Say, what?" Morgan stood at his side.

"Nothing," Spencer made a figure eight in the air with the still drawn marker.

"No, come on. I want to hear it."

Spencer considered his friend, his teammate. Morgan was being honest. He wasn't mocking him, he wasn't angry at what Spencer had said. "There was an author, a fantasy author. He was writing a huge sweeping epic with knights and dragons and about a thousand characters and a huge timeline, but one line resonated with me. He wrote, 'You wear your honor like a suit of armor. You think it keeps you safe, but all it does is weigh you down and make it hard for you to move.'"

"Hmm." Morgan considered, lips tight. "Honor. Pride. You think we're getting it wrong?"

"I think," Spencer took a deep breath and tightened his resolve, "I think we are when we hide behind the oath we took. When we pretend that we can in any way fulfill that oath if we don't take care of ourselves first. When we see ourselves as more than human. As singular heroes out to stamp out evil. As knights on chargers wearing armor that nothing can penetrate."

"Sounds like you're talking about him," Morgan jerked his chin at the white board. "About Randall Garner and the unsubs we chase."

A voice from the doorway made them both turn. "It sounds to me like he's talking about all of us." Hotch stepped into the conference room, catching Spencer's gaze. "When we forget that we're all human, when we focus too much on the job and not enough on the very human beings who do the job – that's a mistake."

"I get that, Hotch," Morgan insisted. "I guess I just need a reminder now and then."

"What, that you're not Superman?" Spencer needled.

"Hey, I wear my underwear on the inside, thank you," Morgan sputtered in mock defensiveness.

Hotch's smile flashed on and off quickly. "If I assure you that Elle is being taken care of, can we focus on this case? Because I'd like to give a profile to the LA office as soon as possible."

"Yes," Spencer answered, relieved. He frowned at his boss. The favor he'd asked Spencer – to share his apartment with a friend – there was a lot more to that. Something that had sharpened Hotch's focus even more than usual. 

Derek was still facing Hotch, deliberating. "If I can't trust you, I can't trust anyone."

"That's not really an answer," Hotch replied. "But I'll take it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Little Jack Hotchner does not have a mysterious heart condition in this universe. Also, the BAU will act more like the actual BAU with more long-distance consultation and less flying here and there and kicking down doors. Unless, you know, they need to. The quote comes from George R. R. Martin's novel, "A Game of Thrones" which was published long before this episode in 1996.


	12. Chapter 12

On any other day, Tony would have taken the opportunity to profile the profiler. He sat gingerly in Aaron's chair, glancing around at the pictures of little Jack and Haley, the law books in their case, the files stacked in in-boxes and out-boxes. His fingers itched to open each drawer, to see where Aaron kept the hidden clues to his personality. Was there a half-empty box of crackers behind his post-its? A couple of magazines in the bottom drawer? A blood spattered shirt he was hiding from Haley in his go bag? A postcard from his brother? An invitation to an alumni reunion? Tony smiled. Yes, on any other day, he'd be digging for gold. The smile faded. But not today.

First things first. He drew an empty legal pad towards him and grabbed a pen from the desk. Each investigator had his own method of problem-solving. Kate loved her pro-con lists. She'd put each suspect's name at the top of a page and mark down tidy little columns for and against his guilt. Tim was all logic and experimentation – data and theories and equations. Tony's mind sought out patterns. He brainstormed, gathered all the facts he had and looked for links, for plots and sub-plots, for the little things that tied the people, places, and things together. His coworkers might make fun of the way Tony found comparisons for their cases in films, but it was all a part of his method. And it worked, damn it. He snorted. Who the hell was he arguing with? It's not like Gibbs was standing over his shoulder ready to head-slap him into spouting off his theories.

Gibbs. Gibbs went with his gut. The veteran sifted every case, every clue in light of his experience, of motivations and methods that he'd come across before. To Gibbs, there was nothing new under the sun, and, Tony shrugged, he was probably right. From the time that Cain conked Abel over the head, everything man could conceive of had been done before. Maybe it got twisted or complicated, tangled up with new tools, new technology, faster systems, bigger targets and a smaller world, but hate and jealousy and greed and revenge had been around since the beginning. And Gibbs was smart enough to surround himself with people who understood the new tools and tech – like Abby and McGee, and who had lived all their lives in this new smaller world – like Ziva. And Tony? Warmth draining from his thoughts, Tony stared at the empty page. Gibbs kept Tony around to make the connections between this new world and the same old motives. The same old sins.

Tony swallowed hard, his own gut roiling at the thought of his old-and-new-again Boss. He hadn't let himself think about Gibbs, about the ramifications of his return; he hadn't let whatever emotions he was feeling register. At first, there hadn't been time. Tony had been sent up to Jenny's office, had that impromptu meeting with Janet in the hallway, and then he'd been shaken by the director's sudden offer of the Rota position. It was all movement and action and Tony putting what obstacles he could between himself and Shepard's machinations. 

Leaning back in Aaron's chair, Tony closed his eyes. He tried to tell himself that he didn't have time for this, that he should be thinking about the future – his future – at least figuring out how to have a future if Shepard was really aiming Rene Benoit in Tony's direction. But, Gibbs was important. Important to Tony, yes, but also to the big picture here. Gibbs was the catalyst, it was his return that had opened Tony's eyes to Shepard's schemes and sent all this crap spiraling into crazy kaleidoscope colors. It was the sight of Gibbs in Tony's chair, Tony's things haphazardly piled on the SFA desk, and a smug, amused expression on the man's face that had sparked the anger that had erupted in Tony's gut.

The scene painted itself across Tony's mind. The early-morning bull pen, a little dark, the quiet before the storm. The three of them rounding the corner. Mustachioed Gibbs, gray hair gleaming. Tony frowned. Pretend it was a crime scene, Agent DiNozzo. He imagined the camera in his hands, his sketchbook nearby. What would he have recorded? Without emotions, without expectations, what would Tony have seen? Was Gibbs' expression really smug? Condescending? Triumphant?

Yes. There was a bit of all that gleaming from those cold blue eyes. But there was more. Satisfaction, like the look Tony would glimpse on his boss's face when a case closed, the scumbag was in custody, and the team was well and whole. Tony had seen that look many times. Staring at Tony, Tim, and Ziva coming off the elevator, Gibbs had been satisfied. Proud. Proud of himself or proud of them? Of the team?

Tony pressed his fist to his forehead, willing the memory to be clearer. "No," he snapped, sitting up. "Nope. You're overthinking DiNozzo. Looking for the answers you want. Giving the man another free pass to screw with your mind." He'd let that inner part of him that always seemed to be looking for good motives behind Gibbs' worst behavior, that young boy trying to defend his Dad's neglect look out through his eyes and memory for a moment. Let that boy whisper excuses about loss and pain and the kind of trauma that scars a life forever. Not this time, Tony vowed. He had his own scars to worry about. It was time to make sure he didn't acquire any more, especially not the kind that would drain the last of him, body and soul.

Enough.

He bent over the legal pad and started writing - quick words, names, arrows, thought bubbles. Question marks. Sometimes he underlined, sometimes scratched something out. No time to overthink, just put it down and let the patterns emerge.

Shepard. Benoit. France. Paris. Guns. Obsession. A case? A case she and Gibbs worked together? No, scratch that. Something personal. Family? Check family. Friends. Does Gibbs know her family history? Mutual friends? They were lovers – when? Paris. Arrow back to Benoit. How long were they lovers? After Shannon and Kelly. On ops. Does Gibbs know her secret obsession? How will he play into it now? Will he help? Back her up?

He switched to Gibbs. Head injury. Fractured memory. Lost his girls. Weakness for women – redheads. Scratch that – young women. Women in trouble. Ziva's trouble brought him back. Soft spot for Abby. Daughter figures. Shepard, too? What would he do for her? To protect her? Memory compromised – can he be manipulated? Retrograde amnesia. Where is Gibbs in time? In Paris with Shepard? Still thinks he's her partner? 

Tony drew a movie marquee, rough lights all around. In block letters he wrote 'MEMENTO'. It fit. Cop's partner uses his buddy's head injury to convince him to take out his enemies. He narrowed his eyes. Not sure Shepard could pull that off. It all depended on how injured Gibbs was. Tony sketched a brain, labelled it 'AbbyNormal' and drew arrows all around it. He needed information. Psych Evals. A doctor's insight. Tony drew a duck and a question mark. Maybe. He gave the duck a monocle and a goatee. Ducky had been pissed at Gibbs for months now. Maybe, for the first time, Tony could get the good doctor to listen to him instead of camping firmly on Gibbs' side.

Gibbs. Who convinced him to come back? Broke him out of his Tequila Sunrise? Had he already been manipulated? He came back for Ziva. Tony's eyes narrowed. Is she a part of this? Partners with Jenny – he drew arrows connecting the two. She couldn't have cooked up the mess she was in, but what about after? Coming back with no warning, no calls, no clearance, no gun. Gibbs knew protocol – ignored it, but knew it. Tony shook his head hard enough to see stars. He drew question marks around Gibbs. It made no sense. He drew another marquee and wrote THE DOMINO PRINCIPLE. Even Richard Widmark couldn't save that chaos of a conspiracy movie. There were parallels, though. Gibbs. Sniper. He drew a long rifle. Was Shepard giving him a target? Beniot? Manipulating a twice grieving, brain damaged man into doing the job? What had Shepard told him? What did he expect this morning at NCIS?

What did Gibbs expect?

Tony underlined it twice. Circled it. He threw down his pen and reached for his phone. Set it on the desk next to the legal pad. Spun it in a circle. Tony needed to know the answer to that question. And there was only one way to find it.

He stood and walked to the window, the phone shoved into his pocket. He lifted the blinds and peered into the mid-day sun and thought about calling Gibbs. His boss. His mentor. The one who'd left him with a half-insulting two-word goodbye and an empty basement. Tony couldn't put it off any longer – he let his emotions come.

Teeth clenched, lips a thin white line, Tony let the fire rage. It filled him, made his hands shake. Gibbs had left, he'd walked out on the team, on Tony, because the brass didn't see things his way. Damn it – that happened twice a week at NCIS. But Gibbs had run away without taking a minute to talk, to explain, to let them talk to him. Very damned dramatic. He'd grabbed Mike Franks' hand and skipped off to Mexico with a 'you'll do' that had ripped Tony down to the bone. 

"You'll do," Tony seethed. It sounded loud in the empty office. Call him petty, but Tony would never forget the sound of those words, like a cold slap in the face, leaving Tony shocked to silence as he'd watched the man walk away. And then he'd come back. For Ziva. Not because Tony needed him, because they were friends, because maybe, just maybe, Tony needed somebody to talk out a case with. Tony swallowed a growl. He'd been so damned happy to see the man. Just like always. Bitterness rose up the back of his throat. And then Gibbs had insulted him, called him McGee, tore out another pound of flesh because Tony wasn't doing things Gibbs' way.

But, damn it, Tony never thought Gibbs would stay away forever. He leaned his head against the sharp casing of the window, his gaze unfocused. Back in June, when Shepard had made Tony's promotion final, he'd had been surprised. He'd known that Janet had been told to refile Gibbs' resignation as an extended sabbatical. That had made sense. Gibbs wouldn't be able to stay away – there was too much undone, too many bad guys still out there for someone like Gibbs, someone with his drive and devotion to duty, to ignore. But then she'd put through the paperwork for Tony's and Tim's promotions – not details, not temporary. Tony hadn't actually believed it until he'd seen the first paycheck at his new salary, and had to sign the new benefits and salary package paperwork. 

The fire of his anger turned dark red, flames weaker, licking at the edges of his psyche. It crouched, glowing embers ready to blaze up again at the tiniest breath, the smallest spark. Just as it had done over the months of silence, the months of normal everyday work at NCIS, trying to mold a team that wasn't his – that had never really been Tony's – into some kind of shape. Months of Jenny's little talks, precisely weighed hints and clues, her offers of something more, some way for Tony to feel in control. Even with Abby's tears, Ducky's hurt, and Tim and Ziva's disdain, Tony had thought he'd found a new foundation, a place to make his stand. Senior Agent, Team Lead, Undercover Operative. And the anger and hurt had dwindled.

As the days and weeks and months went by, he'd hoped Gibbs was healing, body and mind. That his time with his chain-smoking old boss would knit together the jagged pieces of Gibbs' memories. That his body would recover from its trauma. And Tony figured, sometime, his phone would ring and Gibbs would be on the other end. He wouldn't explain or apologize – not Gibbs – but he might invite Tony over for cowboy steaks and the two would figure out – together – how he could come back. What that would look like. Maybe, Tony'd figured, they'd approach the director together, a united front.

"Well, that didn't happen." Tony sighed, lips pursed. "But, honestly, it was good to see the old bastard again." 

Once the words were spoken, Tony remembered the relief he'd felt the instant he glimpsed Gibbs at his old desk. The feeling of rightness. Of comfort. Like Dad was home. And there was still a big part of him that was happy Gibbs had healed, that he was ready to pick his life up again and go forward instead of staying in the past with his girls and his heartache. The warm feeling dissipated. But not at Tony's expense.

Tony shook his head, pulling his phone from his pocket again. Nope. He was honest enough with himself to know that all those good feelings couldn't outweigh his anger. Anger was winning right now. Anger. Betrayal. Hurt. Suspicion. And until he could get a handle on those emotions, Tony couldn't have a rational conversation with Gibbs. 

He took a deep breath and turned back to Aaron's desk. Tony did owe somebody a call back. And his feelings about Tim McGee were a lot less volatile than those concerning his boss. Tony threw himself into Aaron's desk chair and hit speed dial four.

_"Ah, hey, Boss. I know, I know I'm late, but, ah, the drive took longer than I thought. But I'll be on my way in a minute."_

Tony's heart thumped, hard and fast, his feet hitting the floor hard. Tim's voice was deliberately casual, but a couple of notes higher than it should be. Tony gripped the chair's armrests, staring at the door before he remembered that he didn't have a car – no way to get to his partner. Mind flipping through possibilities, Tony took a deep breath and stifled his urge to shout – to demand answers. Whoever was with Tim, whoever was threatening him couldn't be allowed to hear their conversation.

"Tick-tock, Agent McGee," Tony growled, turning his usual smooth baritone into a husky, choking bass. "Get your ass back here. Where the hell are you, anyway?" Tell me something. Give me a clue, he urged, silently.

Tim's voice cracked. Tony recognized the signs - the guy was on the verge of tittering nervously. _"Still at the apartment building on 25th. Um, still, um, looking for the Super."_

25th. Tony's apartment building was on 25th. He closed his eyes, swallowing guilt and rage and fear. Tim had gone to Tony's apartment for that "talk" he wanted. That talk Tony had turned down. And someone was waiting for him. Someone dangerous. He lowered his voice. "Get out. Start walking. Take the stairs. Tell me when you're safe." He cleared his throat and growled loudly. "What the hell are you doing, McGee? I told you the FBI agents were waiting for you on the second floor!" Louder, whoever was listening had to hear this. "Get your ass there, now, or Agent Hotchner is going to blow his top!"

Were those footsteps? A voice in the background? Tim had moved the phone away from his ear to talk to someone.

_"Sorry, but my boss is on a rampage. I'm supposed to be meeting some federal agents downstairs. I hope you find your friend."_

Panting. Running steps. A loud crack.

Tony was out Hotchner's door in two steps, frantic, every muscle rigid. "McGee!"

_"I'm here, Tony, don't have a stroke. He didn't follow me into the stairwell."_

Tony fell back against the wall, head bowed, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly Aaron was standing there, one hand steadying him, his eyes asking all the questions and demanding answers.

"Who the hell was threatening you, McGee? At my apartment?"

_"I'm not sure."_ Tim was as breathless as Tony. Hard soles on the concrete stairs echoed. _"Some French guy looking for a Professor DiNardo. You've got to tell me what's going on, Tony."_

Holy shit. Tony stared into Aaron's eyes. "Benoit. Benoit was at my apartment. Tim just got away from him. He won't be alone."

Aaron grabbed the phone from Tony's hand. "Agent McGee, this is SSA Aaron Hotchner from the BAU. I'm sending back up. Do not – I repeat – do not exit the building until my men get to you. Get to the lobby – a public place." 

Hotchner nodded to the two agents who had followed him out of the conference room at the end of the hallway. "Tony will give you directions. Take Anderson," he ordered over his shoulder. He pressed Tony harder against the wall when he made a move to follow. "Agent McGee, did you hear me?" Aaron said into the phone.

Tony heard the tinny response, glaring at Morgan and Reid – it could only be Morgan and Reid – as they raced towards the exit. "1255 25th Street, Northwest!" he shouted after them. That warm red rage in his gut was blooming into high flames. He twisted. "Damn it, Aaron, let me go!"

"No."

The word was firm from Aaron's mouth and echoed sharply by Tim's nervous voice over the phone. _"No! Don't let Tony come here. That guy is looking for him, isn't he? DiNardo is DiNozzo? I'm not an idiot, Tony."_

"No, but you are in danger," Aaron stated. "The Frenchman was probably Rene Benoit, a very dangerous international arms dealer. So don't take any chances, Agent McGee."

_"What the hell is going on?"_

Tony slammed his head against the wall. "Tell Tim when I figure it out he'll be the first to know."


	13. Chapter 13

The scent of wood lingered. In the porous concrete walls. In the dust he could never quite sweep up. In the air trapped down here for the past four months. Gibbs scuffed the toe of his boot across an old scar in the floor – a gash made by a fallen hammer from hands trembling with drink and memory. It had been his first boat. His first attempt to press his misery into the wood with his bare hands. That's why he'd burned it – burned it and many others. Not because of his divorces, not because the boats had been tied to any particular betrayal or failure. But because the hate, the grief, and the rage that had fueled every second of Gibbs' life since his girls had left him had been laid on those structures, sanded deep, and tied together with wooden pegs shaped by fury and guilt.

Gibbs stopped beneath the high window, the afternoon sun not quite low enough to make a dent in the dimness. Except for an hour or so near evening, the basement existed in a perpetual gloom, the light of one overhead bulb casting more shadows than light. Gibbs liked it. He resented brightness – color – life – and he had done so since that day, since the day the brightness of his life, his world, had been cut off. Fifteen years. Gibbs closed his eyes. It didn't seem possible. The wounds were still bleeding, the pain as sharp as the initial blow. Fifteen years ago and yesterday. 

A whirlwind of possibilities twisted in his mind. What ifs, actions changed, words spoken or choked back, a left turn instead of a right. Fifteen years of his mind spinning scenarios that would have changed the outcome, that would have put Gibbs with his girls when they needed him, that would have sent Shannon a different way so she never witnessed the crime. He didn't dwell there – not anymore. But sometimes he found himself caught there, caught in the riptide between guilt and anger, bargaining with a God who'd never bothered to answer him.

Revenge hadn't stopped the spinning. Hadn't filled up any of the holes plunged in Gibbs' soul. New women hadn't filled Shannon's shoes, hadn't dimmed her spirit, and couldn't possibly overwrite her touches on this house or on Gibbs' skin. But, sometimes, with a woman in his arms, Gibbs could forget. For a moment. He glanced back at the empty floor. None of his wives had understood why after sex Gibbs didn't fall asleep like other men. Why, each time, he'd draw on his sweats and head down here, guilt eating at him until it fell through his hands into the wood, until he was too drunk or too weary to stay awake any longer.

Towards the end, Diane got it. She'd stand at the top of the steps and shout at him, accuse Gibbs of cheating on her with a ghost. For weeks she'd yelled, but then she got quiet. He'd look up from the boat and see her standing there, watching him, and wonder how long she'd been there. It hadn't changed anything. Even if Gibbs wanted to change – for her, for anyone – he couldn't. Not with Shannon's perfume wafting over his shoulder and Kelly's voice singing songs at the edge of hearing.

"Jethro?"

The doctor's voice was gentle. Strong. Inquisitive. Demanding. Like the man himself, Donald Mallard piled up a lot of wisdom, history, and emotion using very little effort. Gibbs could still sense the man's disappointment, a lingering resentment around the edges of his rock-solid friendship. Gibbs had known Ducky for twelve years, almost as long as Franks. But he'd kept a part of his life – the biggest part of his life – a secret from his friend. 

"Yeah, Duck." Gibbs pushed off from the wall and walked back towards the center of the empty room. "Thanks for coming."

Ducky hesitated at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing. "When I received your message I could not in good conscience do otherwise."

"Yeah." Gibbs rubbed one hand across his face. "I figured." It had been a hard message to leave. The words scraped across Gibbs' psyche like fingernails on a chalkboard. He hadn't thought too much about it – if he had he would have hung up without a word. No, he'd stood in the elevator, the emergency stop button pulled, and spoke.

_"Duck. Need some help. I'm back but I've got some blank spots. Can't get it to make sense. Know I let you down. Got some explaining to do. Can't trust anyone else."_

"I see." The hand gripping Gibbs' railing tightening, knuckles white. "You know me so well that you knew exactly the type of message that would cut through my disappointment and bring me here." Ducky snorted. "I wish I could say the same about the depth of my knowledge of you."

"No. Not why I did it." Damn it. Wrong-footed again. Gibbs raised his eyes to Ducky's frown. "Just didn't want to have this out over the phone. Or at NCIS."

"Yes, I was told that you arrived this morning intent on reclaiming your position. In fact, that you installed yourself at your desk at the expense of two very loyal, very dedicated friends. Although," Ducky huffed a bitter laugh, "I've come to believe your definition of friendship and mine are very different."

"Never been good at friendship." Gibbs frowned. "Not good at a lot of things."

After a moment, Ducky nodded. "Very well." He moved down the stairs as easily as a man half his age. "I will assume some of what you said was true, then, and not simply manipulation."

Gibbs rolled his eyes and shoved the single stool in the older man's direction. "Not manipulation. Need your help. Know what that means."

"Do you?" Ducky stood behind the stool, his hands at his sides. "I will demand some sort of price for my support, is that what you're implying? Meaning, of course, that I will weigh my assistance against your apology, or your explanation since you are not one to apologize, and determine if you've paid enough of a price to earn my favor. My, my. I sound like some sort of monster." His expression was bland but his nostrils flared and high spots of color appeared on each cheek.

"Duck."

"Yes. I see now why you left a message in my voicemail instead of seeking me out in autopsy. It is your favorite way of communication. One in which the other party has neither opportunity nor power to reply." Duck held up both hands. "I mean, if you think so little of me –"

"I don't," Gibbs insisted. "I don't," he added more quietly, willing the other man to understand his unspoken apology.

Ducky wasn't wrong. Gibbs didn't do communication. Not the way other people did. He knew that, had known it for years. It's why he always hung up first. Interrogating a suspect, relaying orders down a chain of command, getting close to a woman – yeah, that he could do. But the back and forth of a conversation, the give and take, listening, sharing stories, closing the gap between knowledge and understanding? Gibbs sucked. This morning, the SNAFU in the bullpen, and now, Ducky's anger all came down to bad communication.

Gibbs leaned back against the workbench, half-sitting. He met his old friend's demanding gaze. Didn't look away.

Ducky crossed his arms. "Very well. Let's begin again. And, for the record, I am happy to help you, Jethro. I was actually quite grateful to get your call and to know the rumors of your return were accurate, although confusing." He tilted his head to one side. "Have you seen a doctor? Received clearances both physical and psychological?" Ducky held up one hand as if to stop Gibbs from interrupting. "No, I am not hurt that you did not choose me for those issues. I'm thankful not to be put into a position between you and what you want, whether or not you are truly ready to return."

"Didn't think about it."

"You – you didn't think about choosing me?"

"No," Gibbs said, his jaw muscle jumping. "Didn't think about clearances. Jenny – the director didn't mention them."

"But –" Ducky's blue eyes clouded over as he considered Gibbs' statement. He moved around the stool and hitched one leg up onto it. "That is very much against policy, Jethro."

"Get that now."

Eyebrows rising, Ducky nodded. "And now I understand what you mean about having some 'holes' that you need to fill in. Tell me, did you believe you could simply walk into NCIS, sweep Anthony's belongings off your desk, and resume the job you left four months ago? What on earth did you think would become of the rest of the team? Of Anthony's and Timothy's promotions?"

Gibbs didn't fidget, but it was a close thing. He kept his hands in his lap, trying – again – to follow the reasoning that had led him to his desk this morning. "They weren't details." He made it a statement. There wasn't any other explanation for McGee's outburst or Tony's absence.

"No, I'm afraid not. Director Shephard did not want to engage a temporary SAC in order to comply with the necessary interim period if she had simply detailed Anthony to temporary team lead. Especially since Timothy's promotion was rather, ah, unusual." He pointed towards Gibbs. "Did the director tell you they were temporary promotions?"

"Never said it. Told me she'd take care of everything." And Gibbs had believed her. 

"In that case, the first thing we should re-examine is your rules, Jethro." Ducky smiled. "If my arithmetic is correct, you have broken three, eight, twelve, fifteen, thirty-five, and thirty-nine all in the space of the past few hours."

The rules. He looked away from Ducky's gentle teasing. Shannon had started all that. Never date a lumberjack. Gibbs' heart lurched, his faint smile turning at once to despair. After her – just _after_ – Gibbs had bent the rules to apply to work. To his new life. NCIS. There were rules about making assumptions, about working as a team – broke that one too many times to count. Rules about watching the watchers. Suspecting coincidences. And the rule he'd made with Jenny Shepard in mind – Rule 12. He curled his hands into fists.

"My head's still messed up." It was the only explanation Gibbs could give. Well, that wasn't entirely true. "And I'm a self-centered bastard. But what the hell is Shepard's excuse?"

"You may be a self-centered bastard on your worst day, my friend, but, until now, you would never have knowingly put your team at risk. I think we can both agree about that," Ducky huffed. "However," the doctor plucked at his trouser seam, "I agree with your point. The director may be young – in both age and time in her position – but the shortcuts she has been taking for the past four months, and especially those reams of red tape she's plowed through in order to get you back to your desk today - I cannot imagine that she is foolish enough to believe any of this would fly."

'Until now.' The rest of Ducky's words flew by, unnoticed. Gibbs would never have put his team at risk 'until now.' He tried to swallow around the thick clot of guilt in his throat. Dispatch had tried to call them out on a case today. Without a badge or a gun, with only half his brain engaged, would Gibbs have demanded his people follow him into danger? If Tony hadn't left – if Tim hadn't stood up to him – would they have returned to the bullpen bloody? Broken? Or would they be in body bags on Ducky's tables? A sense of horror filled him – horror, disbelief, fear – it rose up from his gullet like it had at that picnic table when Franks had told him about 9/11. Gibbs turned away from the red-spattered images of his team looking for a bucket, but a tight grip on his arm steadied him. 

"Deep breaths, Jethro. In and out."

He struggled to obey. To focus. What the hell was wrong with him? He let Ducky steer him over to the stool and press his head down towards his knees. The doctor's other hand was on Gibbs' wrist, monitoring his pulse. Quiet. Calm. Gibbs grabbed Ducky's wrist with the other hand, keeping him there, close beside him. God, he needed Ducky. A clear mind. An honest man who knew how to pick his battles. The kind of friend Gibbs never expected and didn't deserve.

Gibbs sat there, breathing, for what felt like hours, Ducky's familiar patter never letting up beside him while his mind spun and caught and flew back and forth over the past few days. He'd made so many damned mistakes. Hadn't listened – hadn't asked any questions. Sailed through NCIS like he owned it, like his team had been sitting on their hands just waiting for him to show up. Why had he believed Jen so readily? When did the blinders tie themselves across his eyes? Gibbs had screwed it all up – from the minute he'd handed his badge and gun to DiNozzo and walked out to his equally as insulting return. If anyone of his team had tried it, Gibbs would have head-smack them into a coma.

"That's better. Your heart rate is stabilizing." 

Gibbs loosened his death-grip on the older man. "I can hear that you have something else to say." He lifted his gaze to find his friend's. 

"Jethro, I do not understand what is happening, but I very much believe that you would do well to see a doctor. Of both types. Now, before you take my head off, let me finish." Ducky's hand moved to Gibbs' shoulder. "You can be of no help to anyone unless and until you find your footing. And I don’t just mean your position at NCIS."

Straightening, hands on his knees, Gibbs clenched his teeth. "Need my job back if I'm going to figure this out, Duck." He needed access to his team, to four months of records to see what was happening. What had happened. Needed Jen to explain just what the hell she was doing.

"No, my friend. You have that exactly backwards. While I do believe your team – Anthony in particular – would benefit from your insight and assistance, you cannot in good conscience retake your position until you have made sure you are stable. In fact, your position demands that you are not just stable but in top shape. Physically and psychologically. Please," Ducky sighed, "allow that I may know just a touch more about those two things than you do."

Gibbs knew what Ducky was talking about. He wasn't talking about comas or concussions. Not really. Gibbs had been hurt before – hell, DiNozzo had more concussions than he did and never bothered to take the required time off, but, beyond a few warning glares, Ducky didn't lecture him. No, Ducky was talking about … his ghosts. Gibbs' scars – the ones he never admitted to. The ones he hid from everyone. The gaping wounds that wouldn't close.

He stood and made his way back to the window, to the watery sunlight that did nothing to warm him. He'd never forgotten Shannon and Kelly. He never would. A few months on a beach in Mexico wasn't going to change that. His concussion had messed with his mind, with his time sense, broken up the smooth flow from history to the present so that Gibbs had trouble following it. But that had healed. Mostly. With a little more time it would heal. 

"My dear friend." Ducky's voice was filled with compassion. "I'd like to tell you a story."

Gibbs' turned around, frowning.

Ducky was perched again on the stool, his hands in his lap. "It's an old story, tracing back to the legends surrounding King Arthur and the Holy Grail. It's about a wounded man, a king, the ruler of his kingdom. As is common in tales such as this, the king's well-being is tied to the land, to his kingdom, and his debilitating wound makes his kingdom barren. Crops die, animals fail to thrive, and his people wander in despair. He waits in his castle to be healed, bleeding, always bleeding. Always in pain. But this wound is not a wound of the body, it is a wound of the soul. And only one man – one hero – can heal him. Heal him by asking him one fabled question. In literature, this king has had many names, but most simply call him the Fisher King."

Gibbs didn't need this. "What the –"

Ducky stared over the top of his glasses. "Do not pretend to misunderstand. Your physical wounds are healing, but the most devastating wound, the one which keeps you from being the man you were, the man you could be, the true 'king' of the land, still bleeds. It is a wound that injures you and all those around you."

Tears rushed to Gibbs' eyes and were checked there, as always, held back by guilt and anger. Trembling just before they could fall. "What is it, then?" he choked. "If you're the hero of this story, what's the question? What one question do you think could possibly heal me?"

Ducky didn't have any qualms about allowing his own tears to fall. He stood and faced Gibbs, distraught. "Oh, Jethro. There is only one question. What do you think Shannon would say about your refusal to live? What would she do if she were standing right here, watching you intentionally destroy yourself? What would Kelly do if she saw her," his voice broke, "her daddy hurting himself again and again and again? Chasing her into the grave?"


	14. Chapter 14

The analyst dragged Elle down the street to her car to dump her bags, and then into a dark-beamed pub crouched between a tattoo shop and a taxidermy place. Inside, they were the only two customers, the bartender nodding to Penelope as she led Elle to the front corner where a high top table sat beside the stained glass window. The dark wood and heavy upholstery, the tint of the windows and the narrow, low-ceilinged architecture should make the place somber, moody, but instead Elle felt a strange peace. Something about Penelope's presence had muted Elle's panic, as if the blonde's innate high energy and brightness was disrupting all of the suffocating negativity. Elle wouldn't have been surprised to find tiny birds and animals coming to light on the woman's shoulders.

As they walked, as they made their way to the table, sat, and ordered, even as they started in on their lunch, Penelope talked. She talked about her cat, about her last boyfriend, about the lack of quality zines and manga these days – whatever those were – and about an upcoming Con that she was trying to tempt Reid to attend with her. A lot of the terms were meaningless to Elle and she found her mind busy chasing the other woman's thoughts, so busy that she didn't have time to dwell on her losses or her pain.

"I admire you, you know that?" Elle's abrupt statement interrupted Penelope's seamless rush of words. 

Penelope sat back in her chair, mouth open, the sunlight from the window glowing green against the lenses of her glasses and hiding her eyes. Across the high pub table, Elle looked down and fiddled with her silverware. She straightened her placemat and caught the condensation on her glass with one finger as the silence grew, frustrated that she couldn't have kept quiet and stayed in that safe bubble Penelope's words had created.

"You admire me?" The woman finally huffed, unconvinced. "I just sit in my lair surf the information superhighway, all safe and sound."

"No, it's much more than that. You see it all," Elle continued, "literally. You see the crime scene photos, the mug shots, the criminal histories and medical reports. And," Elle's mouth curved up but her thoughts were bleak, defeated, "here you are. Happy. Joyful. Like none of it can touch you."

"It touches me," Penelope assured her.

"I know – I mean, I know you feel for the victims. And that you care about us, the team." It seemed important for Elle to get this right, to say these things. Penelope needed to understand. "But you stay a step away – not physically, more like spiritually. You're outside of it all."

Penelope took a sip from her fragile-looking tea cup. Buying time. Getting her thoughts in order. Fortifying herself. Elle hated that she couldn't stop profiling. Not for a minute.

Placing the cup carefully on the table, Penelope leaned in. "I've seen a lot of things. Lived through some. Walked with good friends on their own journeys through darkness." Her eyebrows quirked. "We've all lived a lifetime before we met up here, at Quantico. Each one of us, no matter if we're older than Gideon or as young as Doctor Too-Smart-For-His-Britches. We came with our stories half-written and our bruises just turning green. You don't know my story and, even with the power and glory of the Interwebz at my fingertips I don’t know yours. I guess what I'm saying is, we have all seen evil. Experienced tragedy. Everyone has. And we all have different strengths."

"But I've been trained." Elle insisted, struggling to find the words that fit what she needed to say. 

Penelope seemed to look through her. "This world is filled with evils. Little ones and big ones. Sick children. Abandoned old people. War and poverty and bullies and animal cruelty." Penelope shook her head, light tossing in her hair. "No one is trained for any of that. For your child having cancer. For miscarriages. For losing your husband of sixty years."

Strength. Weakness. Suffering. It all swirled together in Elle's psyche with blame and vulnerability, with failure. Hotch's failure to see the danger. Reid's failure to see the answer soon enough. Anderson's failure to understand. Elle's failure to act. Elle's failure.

"I'm not some helpless victim – or I shouldn't be." Elle hated how her voice trembled.

"But I should be?" Penelope's stare was bland, unaffected. "If any of us should be seen as vulnerable, easily hurt or wounded, it should be me? And that's why you admire me? Because I'm still here? Still standing?"

No, that wasn't what she meant. Elle shook her head, frowning. Penelope's words were too logical, too assured, as if the answers Elle had been desperate to find were right in front of her. That couldn't be right. Elle wouldn't struggle with something so easy – something anyone could figure out. Nothing about this situation was easy or obvious. She licked her lips, heart thumping in her chest. Elle didn't like being the one on the defensive, the one explaining. No. She was strong. She lifted her chin struck back. "You can't deny that this job changes us."

"No, I don't deny that –"

_Attack. Attack. Attack. Keep fighting,_ Elle told herself. _Keep fighting._ She was trained. She was tough. She felt the heat in her face, the itch of her gun hand. "Just look at Hotch." Penelope was too close. Too close to the bottom, the real truth. _Divert. Deflect._ "When I first joined this unit, he was so different. He joked, he smiled, he didn't hide in his office all day and night, keeping his distance."

Head tilted to one side, Penelope replied. "You've only been in this unit a little over a year. Do you think you know our suave, sophisticated super-profiler? Seriously," her eyes widened, "is he that transparent to you? Because, to me, Agent Hotchner has more layers than my favorite crepe cake, and that, my dear, is a lot of layers."

"I'm not saying –"

It was Penelope's turn to interrupt. "I think you are saying that. You've seen him joke with JJ. Encourage Agent Genius. Trade witty barbs with the oh-so passive-aggressive Agent Gideon. He literally lights up when Hayley puts Jack on the phone, like," she spread her hands in front of her, "so much light pours out of him it can give you a wicked sunburn and I love it. And this still happens. It happens all the time. You, my friend," she reached across the table and put her hand on top of Elle's, stilling her nervous movements, "have stopped looking. No, you've stopped seeing. Stopped seeing the light."

Elle stared at their hands. Penelope's was soft and plump, decorated with painted nails and oversized rings. But Elle felt the callouses on the analyst's fingertips, rough and thick, saw the bump on the right side of her middle finger from clutching a pen. Underneath, Elle's fingers were long, her skin a few shades darker, the skin dry, parched. Her callouses were in different places, but they were the hands of two working women. Strong women.

No. Penelope wasn't like her. She was soft. Sweet. Elle's hand curled into a fist. Penelope didn't have to be strong. No one expected it.

"But, to go back to what you were saying, yes, you're right, of course. Doing this job changes you." Penelope pulled her hand back and picked up her cup as if Elle hadn't just rejected her gesture. She held the cup to her face, drawing in the scent of the herbs. "Every job changes you. Every situation changes you. Waking up in the morning, stubbing your toe, finding out your dry cleaner shrank you're favorite pink sweater." Her eyes twinkled. "Change, as they say, is the only constant."

"No." Elle's jaw clenched. "Those are minor changes. I'm talking about changes that reach down into your soul and twist, that leave you stumbling for something to hold onto."

Penelope made a 'maybe' sort of face. "I guess that's the difference between us."

"What, you don't think these cases, these stories, have the power to twist us into people we don't even recognize?" Elle flung her hand towards the window and the people on the street beyond. "You don't think they'd send those people screaming? That the pictures wouldn't have them vomiting up their lunch? Open your eyes," Elle taunted. "Read the unsubs' files again. Look at what happened to them and then what they did to others."

"I have read them," Penelope said evenly, unaffected by Elle's loud accusations. "And, I agree. They are powerful stories. Ugly realities. Sick-making childhood traumas. I know they have power. But it is my choice, my will that determines whether or not that power will touch me."

"Bullshit." The word exploded from a deep place within Elle. "You can't control it like that. You can't control any of it! Do you think Morgan doesn't feel the victims' tears? Their torment as they suffer?" Rage and guilt fueled the bitterness, giving it voice. "Do you think Reid, for all of his supposed intellect, doesn't hurt when he does cognitive interviews? When he's listening to the cries for help? Do you think Hotch isn't walling himself off from everything and everyone because it hurts too much to let them in?"

Tears shone in Penelope's eyes. "Of course they do. They feel the pain. They grieve the losses. If you didn't, you'd truly be the monsters we choose to fight."

"Then how can you say –" Elle choked, trying to push down her fear, fighting her self-loathing. "How can you say you control it? That we can brush it away? Pretend it didn't happen?" Gripping the edge of the table, she fought the stupid tears and the trembling, her muscles rigid. "Are you saying it's our fault when these evil, disgusting people affect us? It's my fault?"

"Elle –"

"How could it have been my fault?" 

Elle couldn't breathe. He stood there, over her, his face a net of scars. Randall Garner. Exhaustion and adrenaline wrestled in her veins, fight and flight mixed up with cold and drained and disbelieving. It was a nightmare. Not real. He was a monster. An ugly, fearsome monster. She was in her home. Her sanctuary. 

The gun drifted, trembled. Did she have a chance? Could she have acted? Lunged? Knocked him off his feet? Shoved the table into his knees? She should have – she was strong, an agent, trained to fight – to defend. Heart drumming in her ears, she'd sat there, pinned to her couch by swirling fear and disbelief.

Fists against her chest, against the ugly scar under her shirt, Elle gasped. "I didn't – I didn't let it happen, it wasn't too weak, I wasn't. I –"

A warm weight pressed against her left side. The arms around her weren't tight or imprisoning or choking – they felt good. Protective. Comforting. Kind. A parent's arms.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Of course you're not weak. Of course not."

Sweet words, the kind a father would say. Eyes closed, Elle saw her father again, as she had when she was unconscious on the operating table. He sat across from her on the jet, gentle and sweet and sad as if she were still a child. The child she was when he'd left her forever.

"I'm not weak," she cried, talking to him, to her daddy, to the only one she trusted to understand.

"Elle Greenaway, you are a strong woman. Brilliant, beautiful, funny, sharp. You have major skills." Penelope's soothing voice mixed with her father's, two pairs of eyes filled with the same acceptance and concern. "Just because evil has touched you doesn't mean you're weak. Or that it's stronger than you. It means you're human."

"What if – what if I don't want to be human?" Elle whispered.

"Oh, sweetie." Penelope pulled her back to the present with a hard hug. "I'm so sorry, but that's the only choice we get."

Tissues appeared in front of her where her uneaten lunch had been. Penelope's chair was beside hers – far enough away to give Elle some space but close enough for her friend to reach over if she needed it. Under her wet eyelashes, Elle swept the room, relieved when she saw that the two were still alone.

Penelope had begun to talk again, that same kind of easy chatter that soothed Elle's spirit.

"I have a good friend – her name is Amy. I wish everyone had a friend like her, really, one you can call at two-fifteen in the morning when you can't sleep and your mind is spinning and you are suddenly four years old again with monsters under your bed and the boogeyman in the basement. We've never lived close – didn't grow up together or go to school together or anything like that – she's a friend I made through the screen of my computer. But, sometimes, when I need her, she carries me."

Elle swallowed hard. "What do you mean?"

Penelope put her hands flat down on the table in front of her. "Look at these hands. They are supple and soft and can fly across the keys like nobody's business. But these hands were not meant to lift weights or carry heavy burdens." Her smile was firm. "I don't think we're meant to carry burdens by ourselves. Burdens like grief and guilt, or sadness. Despair. Hopes broken and love mangled up by other people's egos. So, when I feel like I can't hold them anymore, when I can't possible hang on for another minute, I call Amy."

"And she picks them up?" 

"Oh, she does more than that," Penelope laughed. "She picks me up. With her listening ears and broad shoulders to cry on, Amy lifts not just my burdens. She lifts me. Out of the dark places and back into the light." She touched the back of Elle's hand and sat taller. "If I didn't have a friend like her, I would not be this beautiful, bright, fluffy me that you admire so much."

That surprised a laugh out of Elle. She shook her head. "I think I need Amy's number."

"Hey," Penelope shook her head back and forth as if Elle was being particularly dense. "You don't need her. You've got me. And, of course, the counselor that our fearless leader is going to insist you see."

Staring into Penelope's eyes, Elle felt a loosening in her chest, a hint of warmth. "I think I might like that. You, I mean," Elle added, grimacing. "The counselor – well …"

"I hear good things about her. From people it would surprise you to find go to counseling. People who might work very close to you." Penelope put a finger against her lips as if telling herself to shush.

Elle breathed out, bowing her head to stare at the torn tissues in her lap. "Okay."

"Well, okay," her friend echoed. 

"You – you don't mind? If I call you?" Elle added, glancing up.

Penelope's smile was wide. "Not even if you call at two-fifteen in the morning." The smile dropped off her face. "I mean it. I do. I would love to be your Amy."

Elle sat up straighter, feeling lighter, more open, emptier than she had felt in weeks. It was a good feeling.

"See?" Penelope prompted, lifting her cupped hands from the table. "It works. Now," she hopped down from her chair and settled her purse over her arm. "I'd better see why my phone has been buzzing nonstop for the past ten minutes. And, I believe you have an appointment to keep."

"I do." Elle looked out the window into the sunny, noisy, busy street without flinching. "I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my Amy.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to Criminal Minds Season 1 episode, Secrets and Lies. For the purposes of this story, Tony's undercover assignment at the airport has already taken place.

"Twenty minutes. Tell him twenty minutes." Derek yanked on the steering wheel, facing straight ahead. The SUV wasn't built for maneuverability, but Derek drove it like it was a race car, foot jamming the accelerator to the floor. Spencer had stuffed himself into the corner where the passenger seat met the door, the seatbelt tugged as tight as possible. Behind him, he heard Anderson curse as Derek dodged left onto the shoulder of the highway to avoid a slow-moving minivan. 

"He can hear you," Spencer reminded his partner, raising his voice over the sound of the siren. He held the phone between them. "Agent DiNozzo, are you still on the line with Agent McGee? Does he have any information about the number of threats?"

Background noises set the scene for Reid. The agents had moved into Hotch's office, but the murmur of voices told him Gideon had stepped in and that JJ was hovering somewhere close by, talking quickly on her own phone. Tony DiNozzo, the agent he'd glimpsed in the hallway as they'd raced past, was anxious but clear in his commands. He sounded like Hotch – strong, decisive, with an undertone of anger that he was trying to keep under control. 

"Probie says he's in the lobby, hanging out with Nelson, the concierge." The NCIS agent was obviously relieved. "And since Nelson used to be an MMA fighter and owes me a favor, I think he's okay for now."

"Any other players?" Derek snapped.

"He's got eyes on two likely candidates. A tough-looking chick and a tall thin bald guy who might be someone I've seen before with Benoit. McGee's sending me a picture and trying to get him to say something – I'd recognize the bastard's voice."

"I've advised Agent McGee to keep his distance for now. Still no eyes on Rene Benoit himself."

That was Hotch, his tone bordering on exasperated. Reid grimaced. Hotch didn't like to have his orders overruled and his friend, Tony, seemed to be second-guessing the Unit Chief. Tony was an NCIS agent, a parallel agency to the BAU, not within their chain of command. But McGee, a federal agent, was in danger and that was the FBI's jurisdiction. So, who was in charge? Hotch? Agent DiNozzo? Reid glanced back over to Derek. For Spencer, the choice was easy. He'd follow Derek's lead in the field, knowing that the only priority here had to be getting Agent McGee to safety. But, what then?

Derek seemed to have some of the same concerns. "If this guy, Benoit, is such a major player in arms dealing, how is he waltzing around the District without getting arrested?" The siren whooped as Derek flicked it off and on to try to get the attention of the taxi driver who wouldn't get out of his way. "Does the FBI have warrants out on this guy? Are we bringing him in?"

"Garcia has hit a wall on that end."

Spencer frowned. That was JJ's voice. She must be on the other line with the tech analyst. "If Garcia has hit a wall, that must be a pretty big wall," he replied. He couldn't remember the last time she was unable to dodge around the Internet's most persistent obstacles.

"Yeah, apparently, someone's been setting off cyber-alerts trying to dig up dirt on our friend, La Grenouille. Gee, I wonder who that could be." No one could miss the bitterness in the NCIS agent's voice.

"Garcia recognized the coding – it looks like the CIA has blocked access to Benoit's files."

Derek met Reid's gaze for a moment before he turned back to the road. "Call Gina Sanchez at Langley." He grunted. "She owes me."

"Or Kruger Spence," Reid added. The touchy genius he'd met when the team had been called to CIA headquarters to find a mole would be able to put together the clues with very little backstory.

"Already done," Hotchner stated. "Agent Spence has advised us to wait while he gets upper level clearance."

"We're not gonna wait on the spooks' call before we protect a fellow agent." Derek's hands clenched harder around the steering wheel. "And if they think we will –"

"I've already advised the CIA agents that our team will be bringing Agent McGee back here safely. That is our priority right now, not apprehending Rene Benoit or his associates. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal," Reid replied. He wasn't going to argue with his Unit Chief – not when Hotch was already stressed. Spencer frowned. The bits and pieces he'd picked up from Hotch's comments over the phone, Agent DiNozzo's appearance at Quantico, and now this rescue mission revolving around DiNozzo's teammate and a notorious arms dealer – he shook his head. He couldn't put the pieces into place.

"Okay," Derek's lips were pressed together in a thin line, "we've got another fifteen minutes until we get there. Anything else you want to tell us, Hotch? DiNozzo?"

DiNozzo's dark laughter was drowned out by Hotch's strident tones. "We don't know much. And what we know doesn't make a lot of sense."

"The freaking cat is out of the bag, Aaron, in fact, the cat has turned into a big-ass tiger with red hair and fangs." DiNozzo spoke up. "Here's the teaser, folks: an NCIS agent is sent undercover to romance the daughter of an arms dealer to get intel. But, and here's the twist that will get people to the theater, that agent's so-called 'new identity' is about as thin as the coffee around here. I mean see-through thin. Transparent." As he spoke, DiNozzo's words became sharper and quicker. Enunciated with a sarcastic edge that could draw blood. "That's my apartment you're going to – mine, Tony DiNozzo's. My sanctuary. It's the place I go after I work a 12 hour day at NCIS, change my clothes, and then hit the town with the lovely Doctor Benoit as Tony DiNardo. And, after our candlelit dinner, I get into Tony DiNozzo's green mustang and drive back to that apartment for a couple of hours of sleep before I get up, put on the suit, and head back to the Navy Yard."

"That's –" Derek's expression had grown darker as the agent spoke. "That's not undercover – that's insane. You can't work as a federal agent while you're undercover. I mean, who the hell put this op together, DiNozzo? Some unemployed screenplay writer?"

No, Spencer thought to himself as words and images flickered to life behind his eyes. It was worse than that. 

"I mean, I'm surprised you're still walking around with your skin intact. What the hell background was put in place for this Tony DiNardo? Anything?" Shock and disgust were written across Derek's face.

"DiNardo? Oh, he's got a cyber presence only. Teaches Film Studies on-line. No, Tony DiNardo doesn't have any background. He doesn't own an apartment. Or a car. He has nothing. He is nothing."

Spencer could taste the self-loathing in DiNozzo's reply. His explanation raised red flags in the profiler's mind. This man, this agent, was wounded, he'd been hung out to dry by the person in charge, the one running this Op. By people he'd trusted. And he knew it. Spencer closed his eyes, willing the clues whirling in his mind to make sense. Hotch's friend needed their help – needed more than the rescue of his partner. Derek and Spencer could do that, sure. He'd been trained to carry a gun, to back-up his team in the field. But, until they arrived at the apartment building, until he was required to move, to act, to put on the Kevlar and pull his weapon, Spencer could do more. He could put his mind to work on Tony's problem. 

He reached out for the three dimensional white board behind his closed eyes, spreading the glowing words and images out with phantom hands. Target: Rene Benoit. International Arms Dealer. Money. Guns. Connections. CIA. Threats. Part-time undercover. A thin identity. Too thin. Betrayed. 12-hour days. NCIS. Exhaustion. Danger. Hotch's phone call replayed in Spencer's memory. _"What I was going to say is that I have to get a friend's permission before I can discuss it – with Strauss or with you. But I'm about to do that. If everything goes well, I was wondering if you're up for a house guest for a few days?"_

A friend needs a place to stay. A safe place. A place linked to neither DiNozzo nor DiNardo. Hotch needs to talk with Assistant Director Strauss. Strauss was higher up the administrative structure. Hotch's direct report. A woman with a lot of power. Women in power. Federal agencies. NCIS. A red-headed tiger. The images and words swooped together, the headings of NCIS and the FBI standing out in bold letters. Administrative flow charts from the latest inter-agency memos danced across the clean white surface. Names and titles Spencer's brain wouldn't let him forget. DiNozzo. McGee. Gibbs. MCRT. High closure rates. Accolades. Gibbs injured. Retired. DiNozzo promoted. Wait, go back farther, Spencer told himself. There. Director Tom Morrow, lateral move to Homeland. New director. Jennifer Shepard. Red-haired. 

Erin Strauss and Jennifer Shepard. Powerful. Complex. Spencer took a mental step backwards and looked at the two names. Strauss – competitive. Organized. Chip on her shoulder. Ready to grind anyone who threatened her position under her heel. Shepard – narrow focused. Lower profile. Access to fewer agents, less power. What is the profile of strong, ambitious figures, Spencer asked himself, drawing a distinct line down his mental board. Strauss fit into the Bureaucratic style of leadership: insecure, impersonal. Knows the rules and uses them to keep people beneath her in line. Shepard was different. Tables and charts whipped past Spencer's inner sight. Styles of leadership. Types of leadership. Past cases. Agents. Police. Sheriffs in small towns. Nothing would settle.

Shepard appeared to be a Visionary. Directing a new course in a largely male-dominated military agency. The face of change. But that change couldn't come from directives and orders, the things Strauss would use. He shook his head. Military types wouldn't respond to that. No, she had to be secretive, sly. Choose one or two operatives who would come at the stagnant procedures, the hard-headed agents, from within. From places of trust. The NCIS flowchart appeared again, one name standing out. Ziva David. Mossad assassin and control officer. Worked with Shepard in Europe. Placed on the MCRT when an agent had been lost. Killed. By David's brother. Spencer circled the name with bright flashing lights. David had been placed on the team with Tony, with Gibbs. Another of Shepard's former partners. 

The knots that had concealed Shepard's manipulations were loosening. Spencer heard Derek and Hotch talking in the background, but he ignored it, frowning. He had to see, had to look deeper.

Gibbs had been injured. Gone. Sliced from the web Shepard had been creating. That left - 

Spencer opened his eyes. "Let me ask you this, Agent DiNozzo - when Director Shepard laid out the operation, did she tell you you'd have no back-up?"

Spencer caught Derek's questioning glance, but focused on the silence coming from the phone.

"Not – in so many words," Tony eventually responded.

Nodding, Spencer made quick mental notes. Shepard needed an operative. Someone to take her vision and make it work while keeping them largely in the dark about her goals. Someone she could manipulate. "I'm guessing that it started off small. With small jobs – a few hours of work at a time in non-threatening situations. Public places." Realizing that DiNozzo was not going to respond, Spencer continued. "It's a classic manipulative technique, the 'foot in the door' technique. Asking for a small favor and then a larger and larger one. She drew you in, dropping hints about the importance of the operation, the lives at stake. Commented on the fact that you were the perfect man for the job – no," he corrected himself, "the only man for the job."

"She's had some training in psychological manipulation," Hotch added. "Obviously some experience, as well."

Derek was following along, nodding, and making the intuitive leaps of a veteran profiler. "She drew you in, bit by bit. I'm guessing there was some tension on the team after Gibbs left. And you were thrown to the wolves, trying to hold your teammates together and work complex cases." Derek slapped the steering wheel. "She must be damned good. You know undercover, don't you, DiNozzo? You're experienced – and good at it – I'd bet. So, on some level, you knew this op was wrong from the get-go."

The SUV charged into the District, the dense traffic parting to let them through like the legendary waters of the Red Sea before Moses. Spencer felt the adrenaline rush, his heart beating hard, nerve endings crackling. They were close – close to Tony's apartment building, to the center of conflict. And, on another level, they were approaching the truth, the center of Jennifer Shepard's web. The lies and half-truths she'd spun out to entrap DiNozzo were parting, too. Opening up so the NCIS agent could see, backwards and forwards, along the path that led them here. Spencer rubbed at his sternum, frowning. It had to hurt. 

He was opening his mouth to say something – anything. To assure DiNozzo that he couldn't have known. That Shepard had used her opportunities perfectly. With her connections to Mossad, that wasn't much of a surprise. Working with the Israeli intelligence agency would have given Shepard many opportunities to learn infiltration and manipulation.

Spencer was too slow. Someone else spoke up first.

"She appealed to your vanity, your over-confidence. Your self-image as a ladies' man. She stroked your ego."

Spencer jerked as if slapped. No. That's not what they meant, what Derek and Spencer and Hotch meant. 

The short, sharp huff of laughter was bruising, even over the phone. "You were the perfect patsy. Played right into her hands, didn't you, DiNozzo?"

Gideon.


	16. Chapter 16

In the charged atmosphere of Hotch's office, Tony's eyes narrowed at the senior profiler's well-rehearsed slouch and shrugging shoulders. Cutting words coupled with Gideon's put-on indifference sliced right through Tony's thick walls. 

"Listen, you prick," Tony snarled.

"No, that's not –" Reid stammered, his voice high-pitched and thin over the phone line.

"It's obvious," Gideon said, chuckling, tapping the folder in his lap. "I've checked your record."

"Jason –"

Hotch tried to interrupt, to take charge, but Tony knew it would be pointless. Gideon had slid into the office during the whirlwind that had erupted between McGee's phone call and Morgan and Reid running off to collect him. He'd been slumped there, in one of Aaron's chairs, listening and making faces as the others worked out the situation. Typing on his phone, Gideon had stayed quiet until a bland, suited FBI agent leaned in the door and handed him a file folder. Nice. Someone had clearly owed Gideon a favor if Tony's file could be handed over that quickly.

"You've made questionable decisions before, haven't you? Trusted the wrong people. A serial killer named Jeffrey White. A transitioning Navy officer who'd faked his own death and gutted a fellow agent. You were undercover then, too, weren't you? Caught with your tongue down the criminal's throat in a public place." Gideon's smile was anything but humorous. "Another lethal female drugged you while you were busy flirting with her in a bar. That nearly led to a Marine's death as well as your own in the sewers under the city. You've also been accused of falling too far under in an undercover assignment in Philadelphia. With the," Gideon made a big deal out of flipping through the file, "Macaluso crime family. Almost got engaged to the youngest daughter." He turned his mouth down and nodded. "Sounds like a pattern." 

Tony breathed deep, catching each of Gideon's blows right in the gut. He ached. Seethed. He knew this was going to happen; he'd warned Aaron that if he and Gideon ever came face to face it would be ugly. For some silly reason, Tony had hoped that the urgent need to get Tim McGee out of danger would give him a minute to put up his barriers. But he couldn't wear the 'frat-boy-ladies-man-idiot-nothing-bothers-me' mask when he was focused on taking care of his teammate. Not now. And that meant that Gideon's punches were hitting him, leaving him bloody. And that Tony was going to come back swinging.

"Oh, you've checked my record, have you? Well, you know what? I've checked yours, too, Agent Gideon." Tony leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, matching Gideon's nonchalance with a dangerous smile. "You want to talk about ego? About self-image? Because we could sit here and tear each other to pieces for the next week but that wouldn't do a damned thing to get Tim McGee away from international arms dealers bent on violence, would it? But, then again, maybe you don't really care about putting other agents in danger when your vaunted profiling skills turn out to be completely wrong." Tony forced a laugh. "I mean, you want to bring up Philly? How about we talk about Boston?"

"Okay, that's enough." Aaron stood up from behind his desk, every inch the solid team leader. "We're not here to profile either Agent DiNozzo or Agent Gideon. We're here to assist a fellow agent in distress. And that is as far as our mandate can reach at this time." He speared Tony with a fierce glare and Tony felt the rebuke down to his toes. Aaron then turned to Gideon, holding out his hand. "There is absolutely no reason for you to have access to Agent DiNozzo's file since, by definition, there is not anything in it related to this unsanctioned undercover operation."

Gideon cocked his head, disapproval lifting his eyebrows. "All data is good data," he stated, making no move to hand over the file. "This situation is so far out of control we don't know yet what we need to know."

The blonde media liaison stuck her head back into the office. "Agent Spence from the CIA lifted the firewall and Garcia is in." She shook her head, glancing apologetically at Tony before facing Aaron again. "You're not going to like it."

Tony watched Aaron's lips tighten. He raised his voice. "Morgan, hang on. We're transferring the call to the conference room." He pushed buttons on his phone before heading around his desk, gathering up Tony and Gideon on his way. "JJ, please ask Garcia to join us there. Quickly."

Head down, muscles tense, Tony tried to ignore Gideon's obvious sniff of disapproval as he raised his neglected phone to his ear and headed out in Aaron's wake. "McGee. You still there?"

"I'm here." 

His partner's voice was subdued, concerned. "I'm sending the picture." Tim paused. "This is looking bad, Tony."

"I know, McGee. I really need you to be safe. Put your back to the wall. I mean it." If anything happened to Tim …

"The FBI agents should be here soon. Nobody is making any moves. And," Tim's strained voice tried for humor, "Nelson is acting like my jealous boyfriend, so that's good, I guess."

Tony couldn’t help smiling. "Good. I guess you heard all that – the profilers."

McGee hesitated. "I heard. Shepard is behind all this, isn't she?"

"Don't say her name," Tony warned. He stopped outside of the BAU conference room. "Don't say anything that might set them off." He held the phone away from his ear, opening the picture Tim had attached. Yeah. "That's him. The guy from the airport. Red alert, Tim."

"And now I know things are bad," Tim snorted. "You're making Star Trek references and you haven't called me Probie for twenty minutes."

"I will happily never call you Probie again if you can get back here in one piece." Tony lowered his voice, pleading. "I mean it."

"I'll be fine. Get in there. Put me back on speaker."

He glanced up and caught Aaron's questioning gaze. "Putting you back on speaker." He made sure everyone heard him as he entered the conference room and placed the phone down on the table in front of him. "Tim, you call out, loud and clear, if something happens."

"Will do."

Gideon had chosen not to sit at the table. He was on the other side of the room, as far from Tony as he could get, leaning against the credenza, hands in his pockets. Tony met his glare, weighing, measuring, just this side of threatening. The profiler didn't respond.

Aaron cleared his throat, loud and insistent. 

Tony shook his head. He was tired of this. Tired of Gideon. Tired of Shepard. Tired of profilers and manipulators and people who thought they could see into his soul. Reach inside him and twist and then set Very Special Agent Anthony off to do what he's told like a happy, panting St. Bernard. Not again. Never again. Tony was done. Done with all of it. Once Tim was safe, once he'd helped Aaron take apart Shepard's operation and defuse Benoit, he was gone.

Decision made, Tony was able to sit straighter, to ignore Gideon's pointed looks and clear his mind of distractions. He'd sit at this table and take in all the intel he could. He'd listen to Reid's insights and take Gideon's punches and discuss Morgan's assessments. He'd hear Aaron out. He'd make sure Tim was taken care of. And then it would be time to act. Time for Tony to take his present and his future into his own hands. He would never trust anyone with his safety, with his back, with his body and soul again.

In less than two minutes, Tony was getting his first look at Penelope Garcia, Aaron's tech analyst extraordinaire. He could tell two things immediately – the woman was brilliant and she was a softer, gentler version of his very own Goth angel, Abby Sciuto. Formidable. Beautiful. Unique. And, just like Abby, outside these walls no one would ever take one look and see Federal Agent.

With one flick of her remote, Tony lost all interest in 'profiling' either Gideon or Garcia. The tall bald guy with the long face, the one who'd threatened him at the airport when he was placing the tracking device on the luggage, stared at him from the large screen. The man from Tim's picture.

"This is Trent Kort," Garcia stated. "A CIA operative embedded in Rene Benoit's operation."

"It's the man in the picture, Tim," Tony stated. "He's in the lobby with Agent McGee."

"Well, that is both good and bad," JJ remarked. 

"It turns out the reason the CIA had all kinds of alerts and alarm bells rigged around Monsieur Benoit's name is that he is, in fact, working with the CIA, giving Kort and his crew an in with arms dealers around the world." Garcia clicked a few more buttons and a few sheets of heavily redacted documents appeared. "According to Agent Kruger Spence, Benoit is the least objectionable of those who deal death indiscriminately to terrorists and dictators and cartels on our big blue planet."

"So, Benoit is protected. Insulated from investigation or prosecution of any kind." Aaron stared at the screen. "And Director Shepard's operation?"

"They are aware of it," JJ added. "According to Agent Spence, she hasn't been particularly good at covering her tracks."

More pictures hit the screen. Tony at the airport. Helping Jeanne out of the car at her apartment. Sitting across a table at the Jefferson Hotel. Wearing his NCIS windbreaker at a crime scene. Rendezvousing with Shepard outside her house.

Tony closed his eyes and tightened his hands into fists in his lap. "She knew. Shepard knew."

Aaron caught his gaze, communicating one part sorrow, two parts anger. "Yes."

"She set me up."

"Yes."

"There's no question about it."

"None."

Tony chewed over the truth, grinding it into a pulverized mass of stupidity and ego and bitterness and swallowing it down. He hoped it would choke him. Poison him. A black ball of pus and oozing bile. Nothing, not Danny's betrayal, not his father's neglect, or Gibbs' brush off could compare with this.

"Okay, fine," he snapped. "Not exactly a surprise. But we've still got to get McGee out of there. Kort may see taking out a federal agent as a way to spice up his criminal CV. God knows what the CIA has sanctioned him to do while he's working with someone like Benoit."

"Yeah." Morgan's voice issued from the speaker on the center of the round table. "He could have been tasked with your murder, DiNozzo. McGee's would do just as well to solidify his reputation as well as get NCIS' attention."

Tony thrust the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Tell me you're close, Morgan."

"We're parking now." The screech of tires accompanied his words. "Thirty seconds to the door."

"I see the SUV," McGee stated.

"What's Kort doing?" Aaron asked.

"Smiling," McGee said. "Your three agents have entered the lobby, one stationed at the door. Kort is moving towards them."

Tony didn't know where Morgan or Reid had put their phone, but he was only getting sound from McGee's now. Teeth clenched, he listened, praying not to hear a gunshot or a threat. Please, he prayed silently.

Voices were garbled, muted. Morgan's. Reid's. Kort's distinctive accent. And then, suddenly, it was clear.

"Agent DiNozzo."

"Kort," Tony spat.

"I had hoped we would meet under different circumstances."

Tony held up one hand when Aaron leaned in as if to speak. "Yeah, I get that. Sorry to disappoint you."

"No worry," the CIA agent replied. "Unfortunately, my employer has decided that his business here is concluded, very effectively, I might add, and that we'll be leaving the country for an extended trip this evening."

The twisted ball of rage in Tony's chest tightened. "Have a lovely flight."

"Thank you. Oh," Kort added, "I do wish you better luck in your love life. I understand you recently broke up with your girlfriend. Do you plan to see her again?"

Tony's throat closed. His heart beat in double time. He met Aaron's flinty gaze across the table. "Which one? The red-head or the doctor?"

"Hmm. I don't believe the red-head will be available for, say, between five and ten years. That is, if my friends have anything to say about it. As for the doctor –" Kort paused, waiting.

"Out of my league," Tony replied. "That being said, I wish her nothing but health and happiness. Anyone standing in the way of that is likely to find himself in trouble."

"She is a sweet girl, I think we can agree on that, if on nothing else."

Relief swept through him, but Tony held onto his control with both hands. "Good."

"Oh, before I forget, I just wanted to let you know that Agent McGee was never in any danger."

"Sure he wasn't," Tony answered.

"No. Think about it. Targeting you, Very Special Agent DiNozzo, a man with next to no family ties in this country, an absent father who has his own legal problems, few friends beyond beer and basketball buddies, and a mentor who has, apparently lost his marbles along with his faith in you, is one thing. Taking you out wouldn't upset anyone but your dry cleaner. But placing a bomb in the car of the son of a Navy admiral and the grandson of a woman legendary in the intelligence community? I hardly think either of my employers would condone that, now would they?"

Of course. Tony found himself nodding. Made sense. "The red-head should have picked him," he grunted. "Talk about calling up vengeance."

"Yes, well, Agent McGee isn't really the right type, now is he? That's what you have going for you, DiNozzo. You'll always be the pretty face."

"Agent Kort," Aaron interrupted. "This is Senior Special Agent Aaron Hotchner of the BAU. Your agency has released your files to us."

"The BAU." Kort sighed. "I certainly didn't see that coming. DiNozzo going to Fornell or some other useless drone agent, yes, but the BAU?"

"I'd tone down the threats if I were you, Agent Kort." Aaron's anger furled his brow but made his tone clear and precise. "Your mission might be sanctioned, but you're operating on American soil right now. Your threats against Agent DiNozzo have been noted and recorded and will passed over to both the FBI Counter-terrorism Task Force and the Oversight Committee at Langley."

Kort didn't respond.

"We are having Agent DiNozzo's car towed to a secure garage right now." He'd barely nodded to Garcia and the woman's fingers were flying over her keyboard. "Believe me when I tell you that, if anything has been tampered with, anything at all, you will be called back to face charges no matter where your evening flight has taken you. Do I make myself clear?"

"He's gone, Agent Hotchner."

Tim. It was Tim's voice. Tony let go a sigh and laid his forehead in his hand.

"Agent McGee, please put Agent Morgan on the phone."

"Yeah, they took off, Hotch. Want us to follow?" Morgan was still pissed, that much was obvious.

"No. Stay with Agent McGee. Agent McGee, do you have a key to Tony's apartment?"

Tony's eyes flipped open. "What? No, he doesn't have a key. Why?"

"We need the bomb squad out there," Aaron explained. "You heard Kort. Agent Morgan has bomb squad experience, he might be able to see if anything's been tampered with."

"Awesome," Tony drawled. "This just keeps on getting better and better."


	17. Chapter 17

Peter Davis' long-legged stride took him through the unsettling orange corridors of NCIS at a fast but unhurried pace. His briefcase was heavy, a weight tilting his broad shoulders to the left. His attention focused solely on his target, the man's usually amiable face was clouded with something closer to rage than determination. Janet moved surely next to him, but she refused to run to keep up as the Inspector General pulled away. She adjusted the strap of her own heavy bag, put her head down, and moved. She'd get there. A few steps behind the IG, maybe, but that would still put Janet far out ahead of Jennifer Shepard.

When Janet turned the corner into the director's suite, Davis had just nodded to his aide, Sally Lewis, who had taken over the secretary's desk. Forty-five minutes ago, when the order came from the Secretary of Defense, Davis had sent his aide and two members of his security team to make sure no one would be slipping Shepard any warnings. The two uniformed Marines waited on either side of the door to the inner office. Lewis, sharp-dressed and petite, looked up with eyes of steel gray, utterly composed. The guards were bulky and armed, thick-necked men who could deter violence with their silent presence, but Janet knew better than to underestimate the blond former Air Force Lieutenant Colonel. Sally Lewis had obviously taken Cynthia by surprise – the director's secretary was hunched in a chair set up just to Lewis' right, her wide-eyed gaze flicking back and forth between the phone, the Inspector General, the Marines, and the closed door to the director's office.

"Anyone inside?" Davis asked.

"Director Shepard and Mossad Officer David." Lewis glanced at the clock. "According to Cynthia they've been in there for the past half hour."

"Very good. Keep everyone out – no communication. The others should be arriving shortly." Davis frowned and turned toward Janet. "Ready?"

"Oh, yes, sir," she answered, the fire in her gut warming her from the inside out. "More than ready."

Davis hesitated. "You don't have to do this, Janet. They both carry weapons and we don't know how Officer David might react to our presence."

"Please." Janet forced herself to take a deep breath, to remain calm and professional. "Sir. I'd very much like to attend this meeting."

"Very well." The nod of his head was more like a regal bow. And then the feral smile that flashed across his face ruined the solemn mood. "I wouldn't want you to miss it."

"Thank you, sir." Janet locked her knees. She would get through this, damn it.

Davis held the two guards in place with his stare. "Men. I'll sing out if I need you." He knocked once and entered the inner office. 

"Director Shepard. Officer David. I'm sorry to barge in like this, but we have some urgent matters to discuss."

"Inspector Davis." Shepard recovered quickly, leaning back in her chair as if completely relaxed. Janet would have been less suspicious if she'd jumped to her feet. The Inspector General didn't make unannounced house calls unless the shit has literally hit the fan.

Davis seemed to feel the same way. He stopped next to the empty chair next to Ziva's and looked the director up and down. "I'm surprised to find you so calm at my visit. No concern for your agents? Or our military men and women at risk? Or do you feel that you have your hand so close to the pulse of this agency that you couldn't possibly be ignorant of important events?"

Before Shepard could answer, Davis turned to the narrow-eyed Mossad agent. "Officer David, please get Mrs. Adams a chair. Also, in case you missed it in your hurry-up training, when a superior officer enters the room, it is protocol for you to stand."

"Of course." Ziva tilted her head in acknowledgement and stood just slowly enough to make it an insult. When she moved towards the rolling chairs set around the conference table, Davis gestured and Janet sat down in the chair Ziva had just vacated, Davis on her left. 

"Give me some credit, Peter," Shepard began, obviously backpedaling her nonchalance. "Since this visit is from the Inspector General and not the Secretary of the Navy – or the SecDef – it must be an internal administrative matter. And," she continued, glaring at Janet, "since Mrs. Adams is accompanying you I imagine this is another one of her feeble attempts to interfere with how I run my agency."

Davis set his briefcase next to his chair and removed a couple of thick folders. He reached forward and shoved the inbox and other items on Shepard's desk out of his way and slapped them down. Without turning, he spoke. "Officer David. That chair." He pointed to his left. "Right here. Now."

Good. The longer Ziva stood lingering behind her back the twitchier Janet felt. Thankfully, the woman obeyed, the anger behind her eyes carefully controlled. Janet set her own paperwork on her lap. She didn't really need it – Davis had everything he needed – but it felt right. Like solidarity. Even if Tony and Tim couldn't see her, she wanted to make sure someone represented these two agents during this power play. That they weren't forgotten while the higher-ups resolved this situation.

"I've been on conference calls with the Secretary of Defense for hours. Hours I had scheduled to be with my daughter and my family, celebrating her admission to Georgetown Medical School. And, frankly, Jennifer, I'm pissed."

The word hissed from his mouth like a bullet headed straight for the heart of the woman across the desk. The commonness of the term, the vulgarity, sent a shockwave through the room, just as he'd intended.

Shepard sat up straight. "I – I don't blame you, Peter. Whatever ridiculous stories Mrs. Adams has been telling you shouldn't have interfered with your day. I apologize that I don't have better control of my employees, that I didn't have the foresight to relieve her of duty as soon as she began throwing up roadblocks to my attempts to reorganize NCIS."

"Which employees, exactly, can't you control?" Davis narrowed his eyes and touched one finger to his watch. "It's 2:30 in the afternoon and NCIS is all but a ghost town. Security is working a skeleton shift. Miss Sciuto is still in the lab. But, at last count, ninety percent of both agents and admins have taken sick leave." He folded his hands in his lap. "Please explain which you are, in fact, controlling."

Shepard smiled, but the ice behind her eyes betrayed her frustration. "It did take me by surprise, I'll admit it," she began. "I'd thought the 'old boys' network would have staged this attempted coup long ago, when I first took office. But nearly a year later, the two ringleaders – or, I should say, three," she nodded at Janet across the desk, "have finally gotten up enough courage to challenge my leadership." She tugged her jacket closed and buttoned one button. "I'm disappointed. Not that two of the top-ranked agents, men I'd personally taken under my wing to help them advance, have betrayed me. After all," she batted her eyelashes, "I'm only a woman. DiNozzo has proved over and over that his respect for women stops at the bedroom door." She made a face and turned to Janet, shaking her head. "But that another woman was drawn in by their Neanderthal tactics, and she's turned her back on the struggle of every woman to make it in this man's world? Well, it's been happening for years, but betrayal always hits me hard."

Janet met the director's eye with a level gaze. She didn't fly across the desk and strangle her. She didn't laugh. And she didn't tear the woman to pieces for daring to belittle other women's struggles for equality by claiming sexism and misogyny when it was her own underhanded malfeasance that had put her here. Janet clenched her teeth over bitter bile, but Shepard would never know it.

"I see. So it was Agent DiNozzo who fomented this supposed rebellion? With Agent McGee assisting?"

"Of course." Ziva laughed, dark and nasty. "They have been jealous of me since I came here."

Davis turned. "Ah. Officer David. Please explain."

The slim woman shrugged, unconcerned. "They insist on attempting to give me orders. To tell me how to do things. To put me in my place," she enunciated clearly, all teeth and attitude. "Fools. I have been trained since birth in ways they could not possibly imagine." Ziva huffed a laugh. "They would have pooed in their pants if they'd been faced with Mossad training."

"Jealous. Because you're a woman?" Davis added.

"What other reason could there be?" Ziva flipped her long hair over one shoulder. "American men cannot believe a mere woman could be in any way superior. Gibbs, obviously, is another matter."

"How so?"

Ziva's smile was sly. "He knows. He knows what I am capable of. And he has made it clear since the beginning that I do not have to follow anyone's orders but his."

Davis closed his eyes and twisted his neck to the side. A breath of air steamed from his nostrils. After a moment he turned to face Shepard again. "Let's put Gibbs aside for now. That is a subject that should have been addressed years ago. Allowing the man to write his own rules and procedures, to run the MCRT as if it was his personal kingdom without regard to government regulations or the rule of law was a mistake when Morrow did it. You," he pointed towards Shepard, "have only made it worse."

Shepard opened her mouth to retort, but Davis cut her off.

"And I'm certainly not going to let you get away with the same damned thing." Davis leaned forward, both hands on the files he'd stacked on Shepard's desk. "I want some answers. Honest, complete answers to my questions. That is your duty, a duty you took oath a year ago to uphold. Even if Gibbs has forgotten what a chain of command looks like, you, as director, have a higher calling. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Shepard answered carefully.

"Before we begin, I am going to warn you that I know most of the answers already." He banged one first down on the folders, startling everyone. "And I'll know if you're lying. Oh," he smiled, "and no more crap about the evil men getting together to torpedo a strong woman's career. Since you've always had the backing of the Secretary of the Navy you'll just make yourself sound more ridiculous."

"First question. Why did you place a Mossad operative with no investigative experience, no security clearance, and no respect for the laws and government of this country on the lead investigative team of NCIS? A control officer who had profiled the MCRT in order to assist her half-brother in murdering one – or more – of them. And, before you answer," Davis focused on Ziva, "you should know that the SecDef recently had an interesting phone call with Mossad Assistant Director Orli Elbaz."

Ziva's jaw was tense, her hands gripping the arms of the chair. 

"I – I owed Ziva. And her father, Director David." Shepard was sweating, now. Clearly angry that she was being forced to speak plainly about her motivations. "The MCRT was short a member, and I knew that Jethro – Agent Gibbs – was going to drag his feet filling the position. Ziva is quick to learn, an asset, and someone that I knew would be loyal –"

"Loyal to you or NCIS?"

Shepard cleared her throat. "Initially? To me – I needed someone to have my back. And I knew that, through me Ziva would be loyal to NCIS."

"No." Davis hadn't looked away from the Mossad agent. "You knew she would be loyal to your attitudes and agenda within NCIS."

"My agenda," Shepard snapped back, eyes flashing, "was to drag this agency out of the prehistoric past and into the present. Our present world has little resemblance to the world of the Cold War or the Vietnam era, or 1960s procedures and stereotypes. It is a smaller world where cooperation among likeminded countries should be the norm, not the exception." She flung one hand towards Ziva. "Placing Ziva on the MCRT was a huge step forward in the international pooling of resources and intelligence."

Janet heard her cue and sat forward in her chair. "According to the job descriptions and employee contracts on file with the DOD and the DOJ, pooling intelligence to identify terrorist threats is not the mandate of NCIS' MCRT. The Major Case Response Team is, first and foremost, an investigative team. Each member is, by definition, a Criminal Investigator and a US citizen, and must be cleared to the Top Secret level. He or she must attend the Criminal Investigators Training Program at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center in Glynco, Georgia. The NCIS specific Special Agent Basic Training Program will immediately follow the CITP training in Glynco. All special agents newly appointed to NCIS are required to attend the SABTP."

"Which of these requirements did or does Officer David fulfill?" Davis didn't bother to turn.

"None, Inspector General," Janet answered.

"Your foolish training is unnecessary –"

"Shut up, Ms. David," Davis ordered. "Perhaps you're familiar with the American idiom, 'it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt.'" He held out one hand. "You are fired. Your work visa has been revoked. Hand over your badge, credentials, and weapon. My guard outside is waiting to escort you to the Israeli Embassy where you will be released."

"Just a minute –" Shepard sprang to her feet.

Ziva was seething. "You cannot do this. Gibbs will not allow –"

"Gibbs, who?" Davis barked. "Are you referring to former Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs? The one who retired four months ago? Unless you know something I don't, and, Mrs. Adams, please correct me if I'm wrong, the man was never reinstated as an active agent. He has no credentials, no standing, and certainly no job at NCIS."

"You aren't wrong, Inspector," Janet was happy to add.

"He is – he never retired! He took a leave of absence!" Shepard was shouting, her face nearly as red as her hair. "I am trying to sort out the paperwork for his return right now, over and above the obstructionist tactics of this woman."

"Sit down, Ms. Shepard."

The lack of her title derailed Shepard's headlong rush. She stood, stunned, behind her desk, hands on her hips, staring knives towards Davis' calm figure.

"I believe I asked for your credentials and weapon, Officer David."

Ziva unfolded from the chair, as graceful as a prowling leopard. "Does he have the authority to do this?" she barely glanced towards Shepard, her eyes on the other predator in the room.

"Yes, he does," Davis answered. "Now, please."

A mask slipped into place over the Mossad agent's rage. A mask of benign acceptance. It didn't fit quite right, but Janet gave Ziva points for effort. She placed her badge and creds in Davis' open hand and unclipped her weapon from her belt. Taking one step forward, she laid it on Shepard's desk, right in front of the silent woman.

"Jenny. We will speak soon."

It sounded like a threat.

"Thank you," Davis stated evenly. "Sergeant!" he barked.

The door to Shepard's office opened immediately, one Marine standing at attention filling the frame. "Sir?"

"As we discussed, Sergeant," Davis ordered. "Have Ms. Lewis perform the pat-down in your custody. Hand-cuff Ms. David if necessary. Anything that is not a personal item is to be confiscated. Officer David may collect her personal belongings from her desk area, but she is to make no phone calls nor try to contact anyone before you escort her out of the Navy Yard. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." The Marine moved to one side. "Ma'am."

Janet watched Ziva analyze her chances, weighing the Marine, his weaponry, his size and strength with her own with half-lidded eyes. She tilted her head to one side as if toying with the idea of putting up a fight. The smile that she flipped over her shoulder at Janet as she sauntered out the door left a cold chill in the air and an expectant silence.

Davis sighed and rubbed one hand across his face. "Let's get on with this –"

Shepard was fuming. "You cannot come in here and start firing my employees –" 

"I have and I will and that is the last mention I plan to make of Ziva David. Now," Davis pointed, "sit down and we can hope to get some of this straightened out before your other guests arrive."

"What 'other guests'?" 

"Fine, stand if you wish." Davis shrugged. "Let's talk about Tony DiNardo. An undercover assignment set up with no cover story and no back-up. The use of a valued NCIS employee as a stalking goat for an international arms dealer. Let's talk about Rene Benoit and the unsanctioned operation you were running with NCIS resources – human and otherwise - in order to target him. Let's talk about the intel Mossad Director David was spoon-feeding you and the laws you've broken and short-cuts you've taken on your way from that chair to federal prison."

As Shepard sank into her seat, face drained of color, the Inspector General continued, his words terse, bitten off like projectiles. "And, let's talk about the fact that your secret little Black Op, your private plan for vengeance, was discovered months ago." He slapped open the top file and threw surveillance photos onto her desk, one by one, each one spinning to a stop in front of her. Pictures of Tony. Of Jeanne Benoit. Of Tony at the Navy Yard. Driving his beautiful Mustang. And the same car in blackened, jagged pieces. "Discovered by Rene Benoit with help from his handlers at the CIA. And that Special Agent DiNozzo was targeted to be killed by one such agent. In fact," Davis checked his watch again, "half an hour ago, Agent DiNozzo's car exploded while it was being inspected at the FBI garage in Quantico." Davis leaned in, cold as ice. "Two men are dead, Ms. Shepard. Three more are injured. And, if I can call the BAU off of you before worse happens, you are going to be charged with murder."


	18. Chapter 18

Tim sat in the stifling office in the BAU, his heart beating too fast. He gave himself a minute – a minute to try to corral his thoughts, the spinning, out-of-control data that had come in too fast over the past few hours. His brain was overloaded; the code was being rewritten, overwritten, changed. What Tim had based his life and assumptions and beliefs on, the familiar pathways of thought that kept him moving, told him what was right, what was wrong, and who was trustworthy had been twisted into a tangled maze. And now his mind was trying to pick and choose the facts, the real data, and the right road out of the jumble of faulty constructs. He didn't want to overreact. To assume. That was a rule, wasn't it? He swallowed bile and tightened his hands into fists.

Facts. Data. Go over it again, he told himself. They'd come – they would be coming for him soon. Tony would be here soon. Smiling and laughing and calling him Probie. Tim took a deep breath, pushed aside the panic, and went back over it all in his mind.

The two BAU agents, Reid and Morgan, had kept close beside him at Tony's apartment building. Even after Kort and his people had drifted off, Morgan had kept one hand on McGee's arm, never letting Tim get an arm's length away. They'd herded McGee out of Tony's building and organized a systematic but swift evacuation. The Fire Department, Metro PD, and the FBI bomb squad had arrived with sirens and thick padded coats and dogs. The manpower and inter-agency cooperation convinced Tim that whatever Tony was involved in, whoever was targeting him, this was serious. More than serious. He'd watched the vehicles and equipment, agents and officers take over the Georgetown apartment block as if it was one of Tony's spy movies. It was unreal. If there was a bomb in Tony's apartment, people could be hurt. People could die. Tim – Tony - could have died.

Before the scene could be cleared, Reid and Morgan had taken a phone call, handed off the detail to other agents, shoved Tim into their SUV, and headed back to the BAU. Tim had stammered out questions, angry, afraid, frustrated, worried, pissed off – all of the emotions bombarding him at once. He was pissed that Tony had been keeping secrets. Worried that his teammate was in so much danger. Angry that he hadn't been warned that going to Tony's apartment would put Tim right in the middle. But, most of all, Tim had been afraid that his tidy, well-regulated life, his job at NCIS, Gibbs and his team, his awkward friendship with Tony – that all of that was over.

Morgan and Reid had been less than helpful. They'd barely met Tony, apparently, before they'd been sent to help Tim. Their Unit Chief, someone named Aaron Hotchner, had ordered them to come. He and Tony were friends. Tony had gone to Hotchner after he'd left NCIS this morning. He'd walked out, past colleagues, fellow agents, friends. He'd passed by Tim without a glance and went straight for another agency to help him. Tim didn't get it.

"I don't get it," he'd snapped. "Agent Hotchner sent you out just on Tony's say-so? That doesn't make any sense. Is the BAU working this undercover case with Tony?"

The tall, skinny agent frowned back at him. "Not that I know of."

Morgan had grunted. "What doesn't make sense about it? Protecting federal agents is the FBI's purview. You're both federal agents, right? There was a legitimate threat."

Tim made a face. "Of course, but why would he believe Tony? And why would Tony go to the BAU of all places instead of just calling Fornell? I mean, the BAU deals with profiling serial killers, right?" He chuckled. "That's a little over Tony's head, above his paygrade."

Agent Reid had half-turned in his seat. "You know, I've heard that the average person in local law enforcement isn't familiar with the BAU's work, that they tend to believe what they see on television about us only working serial cases. But I'd have thought a fellow federal agent would have been better informed."

Tim had rolled his eyes. "Okay, so you don't just do serial killers. But, I still don't get why Tony went to your Unit Chief – or why Agent Hotchner didn't even question him but sent you two off on just Tony's word."

Stopped in typical DC traffic, Morgan craned his neck so that he could meet Tim's eyes. "Seems to me the real question is why Agent DiNozzo couldn't go to anyone in his own agency. Why he couldn't go to NCIS. Now that I hear your attitude, I think I'm getting a clue."

Tim had tightened his jaw, anger fighting its way to surface of his murky emotional swamp. He had sounded petty again. "You have no idea what's going on at NCIS right now."

"The question is, do you, Agent McGee?"

The SUV's acceleration had pushed Tim back into his seat. He'd crossed his arms and stopped talking. Neither of these agents had a clue about how messed up the MCRT was. They didn't feel the ground shifting suddenly out from under them. They didn't know how Director Shepard was trying to get around governmental regulations to get Gibbs back to his position. Janet Adams had insisted that Tim talk to Tony about whatever the hell else was going on. To be supportive. But the habitual ruts of Tim's thinking weren't that easy to change. He was frustrated – with the situation, with himself - but Tim couldn't switch off his resentment like Tony seemed to do. 

He couldn't wait any longer. Rene Benoit. Trent Kort. CIA. Arms' dealers. Bomb threats. The Behavioral Analysis Unit. Tony DiNardo. Tim fumbled his phone from his pocket and dialed Tony. 

"Agent DiNozzo's phone."

"Who the hell is this?" Tim demanded. Some woman was answering Tony's phone. Of course she was. Tony probably had his head in her lap playing the poor, pitiful, picked on agent. 

"This is SSA Jennifer Jareau. To whom am I speaking?"

"This is NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee. Tell Tony to put his pants on and answer the damned phone."

"Excuse me?"

Tim had felt the chill from the woman's response settle in his lap like a bucket of ice. Shit. He'd let his tongue run off with his brain again. "Look. I'm sorry, Agent Jareau. I need to speak with Tony. Please. It's – it's been a crazy day."

"Agent DiNozzo is … unavailable right now. Do you need assistance, Agent McGee?"

Her tone was still icy, but Tim appreciated her concern. "No. I'm fine. Thank you. I'm with Agents Morgan and Reid. But I'd really like to talk to Tony."

"Can you put me on speaker, please, Agent McGee?"

"Um, okay, I guess." He pressed a button and leaned forward, holding the phone between the seats.

"Yeah, JJ, what's going on?" Morgan didn't look away from his fight with traffic. 

"Hotch wanted me to tell you that Tony's car had arrived at Quantico. It's in the reinforced garage. An explosive device has been found. Hotch and Tony are in conference with the specialists there. Agent Kort is being recalled by his superiors for an in-depth report on all of this, but he hasn't responded yet. Keep your eyes open and don't stop anywhere before you get Agent McGee back here. Keep him out of sight, Morgan."

"I thought he said I wasn't a target?" Tim squeaked.

"We can't judge the credibility of what Agent Kort said or didn't say," Reid piped up. "Not until we do an in-depth profile. He might have been trying to throw us off track." The young agent raised his eyebrows at Tim. "Is your father really a Navy admiral?"

"Yes," Tim mumbled in reply. "Please, please tell me the FBI hasn't been in touch with the Admiral about this." That was the last thing Tim needed.

"Of course we have," Agent Jareau replied sharply. "Any threat to a high ranking military officer or his family isn't just going to be ignored, Agent McGee."

"Great," Tim groaned. "What about Penny? I mean, Penelope Langston? My grandmother?"

"Agent Kruger Spence of the CIA is handling it in-house."

Tim closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "This is a nightmare."

"You got that right," Morgan agreed. "Anything else, JJ?"

"Just -" she paused. "Be careful. This entire matter is not open for discussion until you return to Quantico. Park in the garage – other agents will meet you there and escort you upstairs. These orders are from Assistant Director Strauss herself."

The two BAU agents seemed to share an entire conversation without speaking at Jareau's orders. Tim looked back and forth between them, mouth open to ask, to demand answers. He shut it. There was a bomb in Tony's car. They'd found a bomb in Tony's car. And Tony was … unavailable. Tim swallowed.

"Heard and understood," Morgan answered.

Tim closed his phone and sat back in his seat. Tony was being shielded, protected by the BAU. He was in conference with Hotchner and maybe the Assistant Director of the FBI. The CIA was involved. Tim's head spun. These people seemed to be circling the wagons around Tony. Keeping everyone away. Keeping Tim away. As if Tim was part of the problem.

Maybe he was. 

Tim propped his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he stop himself from putting Tony down? From instantly – knee-jerk, automatically, mouth-open-insert-foot – insisting that Tony was lazy? Incapable? That Tony didn't deserve inter-agency respect? Tony had been in law enforcement for over a decade, he had friends all over the country, contacts that Tim couldn't garner in a lifetime, and respect from every agent they met that wasn't a part of Gibbs' MCRT. When Tim had first met Tony he'd seen the senior agent as the poster boy for field agents. Confident. Strong. Physically capable and quick-witted. Tim had looked up to Tony. But since Tim's transfer to the field, to the MCRT, that respect – that admiration - had changed to contempt.

Familiarity breeds contempt – that was the old saying. Working side by side with him, Tim had found out that Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo was flawed. He talked too much. He joked and played pranks. He had the sense of humor of a ten-year-old. Tim tightened his hands around his skull as if he could pry it apart and root around in his brain for answers. So what? So what if Tony had characteristics and idiosyncrasies that Tim didn't admire? So did Ziva. So did Abby and Gibbs for that matter, but that didn't give Tim the idea that he could belittle them – and he'd be picking his teeth up off the ground if he'd tried. So, why Tony? When had it become okay to consider Tony beneath him? To say what he had when Agent Jareau answered his phone?

If he'd been writing this scene, the confused main character sitting in the back of an FBI SUV coming to terms with his screw-ups, Tim would have used phrases like 'the fog parted' or 'the curtain swept aside'. But it wasn't like that. It was more like putting on your first pair of glasses, every detail of a world you thought you understood coming into sharp focus. Looking back at behavior and words in the bullpen and actually seeing, actually hearing. Why had Tim lost his respect for Tony? When had he begun to question him? Stopped following his orders? Mocked him for the smallest thing? What had started this huge snowball rolling, crushing all of Tim's professional admiration?

Gibbs. Gibbs had led the way.

Gibbs slapped Tony. Made fun of him. Gave Tony, the SFA, the shit jobs of gassing the truck, fingertip searching the crime scenes, and pawing through dumpsters. Gibbs had told Tim that the only orders he had to follow were the ones from Gibbs himself. He'd given up some of Tony's most closely-guarded, embarrassing secrets to Tim and Cate and Ziva. That first case with Ziva, it was Gibbs who had revealed Tony's childhood chore of carrying a bucket of shit around Civil War battlefields. With a smirk and a wink, Gibbs had cut Tony off at the knees again and again, sharing the joke with the people who should have shown him the most respect. The junior agents. Tim, a guy who had no field experience at all before his transfer to the MCRT. Cate and Ziva, transfers with their own special skills but with no investigative experience at all. Gibbs had all but shoved a knife into Tony and drained away any sense of the Senior Field Agent's authority and all of the veteran investigator's value.

If Tim had asked himself why, if he'd even once questioned Gibbs' attitude towards Tony, the man he'd been partnered with for years, he might not have fallen so hard. Screwed up so much. But he hadn't. He'd been happy to play along. To get in his own digs. To give back a little on behalf of geeks versus jocks. Grimacing, Tim tugged at his deeply embedded attitude about Tony DiNozzo. The one that heard a woman's voice from his phone and immediately imagined flirting and sex, not active cases and danger. He pulled. He yanked. It was going to be hard to dislodge it – to turn from mockery to acceptance. To recognition. To obedience. To change knee-jerk insults into instantaneous serious regard. Tim couldn't hope to begin here. Alone. With strangers. If he was going to overwrite his inner code, he was going to need new data. Answers. He needed Tony.

Tim opened his eyes and focused on the two agents in the front seat.

"You are taking me to Tony, right? I mean, I'm going to get to talk to him sometime?"

"You heard Agent Jareau. We're headed back to Quantico, to the BAU. DiNozzo and Hotch might or might not be available," Reid stated. 

"But, I want to talk to him," Tim insisted.

Reid's wide-set eyes turned to Tim. The thin, young agent should seem ridiculous, an egg-head, an academic that a field agent like Tim could largely ignore. But his steady regard was unsettling. "I guess the question is," Reid stated evenly, "is Agent DiNozzo going to want to talk to you?"

Reid and Morgan hadn't said a word for the rest of the ride and Tim, honestly, didn't need any more input. They'd driven into the lowest level of the parking garage on the Quantico Marine Base, Morgan stomping on the SUV's brakes as they turned the corner by the elevators. Three agents awaited them there, earpieces tight in their ears and microphones on their sleeves. One slid behind the wheel as Morgan slid out, and the other two hurried the group into the elevator, turning a key and pressing a button that closed the doors and sped them up to the sixth floor without any stops. Surrounded by agents, Tim had been hustled around an open bullpen and up into an office. A full coffee pot sat on what looked like a hurriedly cleared credenza, a couple of wrapped sandwiches and fixings beside it.

The nameplate on the desk read Aaron Hotchner, but the desk chair was empty. Tim had turned as Morgan and Reid backed out without a word. Just as he was moving to follow them, to ask – to demand – that they tell him what was going on, a beautiful blonde woman strode in, nodded to each man and closed the door behind her.

"Agent McGee, I'm Agent Jareau." She gestured to the empty office. "I am sorry, but this situation has escalated. We will send someone in to discuss matters with you as soon as we can, but, for now, we need your cooperation."

"Of course." Tim nodded. "Is – is Tony here? Is he okay?"

Jareau looked grim. "Again, I'm sorry, but I have my orders. And those don't include reading you in on the situation. Not as it stands right now."

"But –" Tim's gut churned, the acid leaping up his throat. He swallowed it down. "You'd – I mean, he was here – Tony was here? With the FBI? Nothing could have happened to him, right?" No. Nothing could have happened. His mind clicked over the little information the agents had revealed. Tony and Agent Hotchner were, what were they doing? 'In conference,' that's what Agent Jareau had said. Tony and Hotchner were in conference with the bomb techs. Tim collapsed into a chair, his body suddenly cold. "They weren't – Tony's car. They didn't." No. That couldn't have happened. He held out one hand towards the woman, the woman looking at Tim with sorrowful eyes. "Tell me. Please, tell me if Tony went to the garage. Tell me if –"

"I am truly sorry, Agent McGee. I simply cannot tell you anything right now. Please, stay here and I will send someone to you just as quickly as I can."

The thing was, she sounded sorry. Sad. Angry. As Agent Jareau left the room, the snick of the door's lock like a bullet fired in the silence, Tim thought she looked just like an agent would look who had just lost a colleague. A friend.

Tim dropped his head into his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My readers are awesome! Thank you for every kudo, every one word comment, every lengthy plot discussion, every key-smash. When this latest virus kept me down for over a week, your reviews made me super determined to fight it off and get back to this story. I may not reply to every comment, but I read them and appreciate them and you. <3


	19. Chapter 19

_One hour earlier_

Tony looked out over the BAU bullpen. Behind the closed door of the conference room, he slid the blinds apart, the noise of Aaron's low, deliberate orders behind him a subliminal soundtrack to his distracted thoughts. Tim was safe. In the car with Morgan and Reid. On their way back. Kort was in the wind – only concerned for his own operation, trying to keep himself – and Benoit – clear of the CIA fall-out. He'd claimed he wouldn't target Tim, but Aaron had ordered his agents to take no chances. Because Tony's Mustang was in the Quantico bunker, the bomb they'd found still strapped to its frame. That had been the clincher, Tony figured. Finding out that Kort hadn't just threatened, that the man's words hadn't been empty after all. CIA. FBI. Homeland. They were all in on it now. Strauss. Davis, the IG. The damned Secretary of Defense. And they all wanted a piece of Tony.

Funny, Tony couldn't seem to care. About any of it. There was a bomb. On his car. The car he'd driven to the Navy Yard this morning. The car he'd parked at Arlington. When Aaron had shared that information, Tony's mind had taken a great big step sideways and refused to come out.

He knew Aaron was worried. Even as the Unit Chief was dealing with bureaucrats and intelligence weenies, his own Assistant Director's orders, ramped up security, and a situation all the way out of control, Aaron kept flicking concerned glances in Tony's direction. When Tony couldn't take it anymore, couldn't handle the alarm on Aaron's face, he'd moved. Shoved back from the table, from Garcia and Gideon and Jareau and turned his back. If he could have gotten away with throwing open the door and hightailing it for the airport, taking off for California or Hawaii or Timbuktu and becoming a homeless beach bum who'd never heard of the federal agency alphabet soup, he would have done it.

If only.

Instead, Tony kept breathing. In and out. In and out. He let his arms hang relaxed at his sides. Cracked his neck back and forth a couple of times. It was fourth down and the end zone was over the hill and out of sight and the other team was winning sixty to nothing. Time to sit down on the sidelines, grab some oxygen, and watch his team's chances go up in smoke. No point in fighting. In straining any more muscles or breaking bones. In putting himself out there. It was time for Tony DiNozzo to watch the clock run down and take his last lonely walk from the field.

"Leave it all out there." His coaches had all said something like that. Repeated the mantra of winning teams down through the ages. "Don't look at the goal, don't count the yards to the first down, just run hard, break tackles, and fight, fight until the bitter end. Until you don't have any more."

Tony was done fighting. He smiled at his inner football game scenario, imagining himself surrounded by Wolverines out for blood. Imagining himself tearing off his helmet, smiling, and throwing the ball over his shoulder as he walked off the field. He blinked, tilting his head. For some reason, in his vision, Tony's teeth were bloody.

Someone stepped up on Tony's right side, the width of the closed door between them. He knew it wasn't Aaron – he was still on the phone. Garcia's fingers were still tapping like crazy castanets. JJ had her own phone out and was having multiple conversations at the same time. That left one. The person Tony wanted to hear from the least.

"What do you see?" Gideon murmured.

Tony clenched his teeth.

"Please. Agent DiNozzo."

The unexpectedly gentle tone of Gideon's voice made Tony turn his head. Gideon wasn't looking at him, he had mirrored Tony's position and was peering through the blinds at the BAU bullpen area. 

"Why?" Tony breathed.

"I would genuinely like to know," was Gideon's answer.

Tony shook his head. _Why not?_ he asked himself. It couldn't make their interaction any worse. He took another deep breath and pried the blinds aside.

"It's a good set-up. Open. Light. Efficient. A lot of room to move even with all the desks and cabinets. Modern." Tony shrugged. "A little industrial and cold, but I'm guessing it's a lot better than spending your days in the basement with no windows and no air flow and bad lighting."

Gideon huffed. "You have no idea," he drawled. "What else?"

Tony frowned. There were agents in the bullpen – far more agents than he knew were on Aaron's team. Other units must share the bullpen with Unit 4. Admin staff, maybe. Staffers. Researchers. They moved freely between desks, stopping to talk, to drop off files, or gathered in twos and threes to discuss something. Tony could see it all from the conference room window, from the raised walkway that led to Aaron's and Gideon's offices all the way to the frosted glass doors near the elevators. "It's a good collaborative environment."

As soon as he'd said the words, Tony froze. He stared, his mind trying to people the BAU bullpen with familiar faces. With a tall Marine with silver hair. An arrogant Mossad chick. The clickety-clack of McGee's typing. Tony's own work-smarter-not-harder shtick. No. It didn't work. The differences were stark – slap-in-the-face obvious.

There was a universe of difference between the BAU and NCIS. NCIS was segmented. A cubicle-style office system with each team huddled behind bright orange walls. Isolated. Their cases and interactions segregated from all of the other teams. The director's office sat high above the rest, in a castle-like setting, a parapet hung all around her office where she could stare down at her minions while remaining aloof, above them all. Up in the heady, rarified regions where life-and-death decisions were made. Here the desks were set in groups with no walls between them, each agent working with every other agent on the floor, able to share information and insights easily. And the lead agents' offices were just a few steps above the others, making them a part of the whole.

Why had Tony never realized how archaic, how nonfunctional the NCIS structure was? It seemed so obvious now, obvious that working together, as agents and teams with the same goals, the same oaths and directives, enforcing the same laws to put the same dirt bags behind bars was a much more effective system than keeping each team to itself. 

Unless team leaders had something to hide. Tony focused his thoughts on the MCRT. On Gibbs. If Gibbs was as confident as he seemed, he shouldn't mind working with other agents, other teams, other agencies. His natural leadership should shine, his years of experience trumping any other agent's. So, why did he? Why did Gibbs resist – outright refuse – to work with others? What was he afraid of? Why did Gibbs hide behind his team, his rules, his hidebound notions of hoarding evidence and cases when, in the world since 9/11, agencies needed to work together more than ever?

"You see it."

Gideon's voice broke in on Tony's frustrated musings.

"I see something. Not sure if it's what you're expecting."

"My assumption is that you're seeing that the BAU, this team in particular, that our work is a collaboration. We work together. We each have strengths, skills, parts of the puzzle. I'm good at one thing, Morgan at another. JJ handles communication – she's good at it. Garcia is a data analyst. The best in the business. Reid sees patterns." Behind Tony, Gideon shifted. "But, in order to do our work, to build our profiles, we come together. We could not possibly do it without collaboration."

Tony turned, crossing his arms. He considered the other man. "I get that. I don't get why you think it's important for you to point it out."

Gideon's eyes still seemed small, devoid of life. But his words were full, brimming with emotion. As if he was desperate to communicate something to Tony.

"You describe yourself as an expert at undercover."

"Yes." Tony nodded. He was. Had been. Once upon a time.

"An undercover agent is forced to rely on himself. He's alone. Isolated. He can't count on anyone, really, not even his handlers. And, because of this, he is usually slow to trust if trust is even possible. Anyone who has worked Black Ops knows the mentality." Gideon didn't seem to blink, his words low and fast. "We recently worked a case at the CIA, within one team. These men and women work in an atmosphere of deep distrust, even among each other. You know people like this. You work with two. You are one."

Gibbs. Gibbs and Ziva. Shepard, too, if Tony was in any frame of mind to consider her a colleague. Tony knew that Gideon could see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes – he didn't bother to speak. 

"Agent Morgan worked undercover for a short period of time. It was still a difficult transition for him to this unit." Gideon took a step closer. "I am constantly surprised by his ability to open up and let go of his suspicions. To be a true part of this group."

Tony shook his head back and forth. "Okay. But, why –"

"Hotch wants you in this unit. That much is clear."

"No." Tony shot out an immediate denial. "That doesn't –"

Gideon's voice was nearly a growl – not aggressive, but filled with some profound need to explain. "You're wondering why I was so harsh to you back in Hotch's office. Why I made the comments I did. It's not because I wish you harm, or believe you are ineffective in your job. It's because I think you would be a terrible fit in this one." He shrugged. "I went about it the wrong way." Gideon pulled one hand from his pocket and gestured to the others. "Has Hotch told you about Elle? Agent Greenaway?"

Tony did not want to talk about this. "Some. But it's none of my business, and I think you're wrong."

"I'm not wrong." Gideon smiled, closed-mouth and unamused. "Agent Greenaway had worked in sex crimes. She had insight into the minds of people whose crimes are motivated by their need for sexual gratification. But she'd worked alone, undercover, too much. After a few months working here, she began to open up, much more readily than Morgan had. She considered it a duty, a requirement for her to survive her probationary period to learn to trust. She trusted Morgan, her partner in the field. She trusted Hotch. And, when she was attacked, she came to believe it was that trust that had let her down." Gideon lowered his voice. "That is what broke her. Not Randall Garner's bullet, but believing that trusting us, trusting the team, got her shot." He grimaced. "She won't trust again. Not completely. Not without a lot of work."

Tony's gut churned. Trust. It's what had gotten him into this mess. Trust in Gibbs, in the team. In the director. Trust in himself. A little while ago Tony had sat at that round table and vowed never to trust anyone again. 

"Exactly." Gideon nodded. "I've read your file. I've seen the psych reports. You're excellent at hiding yourself away. You have, maybe, the most seamless integration into undercover roles that I've ever seen. The need to be someone else, to hide your true self, pervades your personality. If I had more time, time to walk through your life as we walk through the early lives of our unsubs, I think I would find that Tony DiNozzo has been undercover in one way or another since childhood." Gideon turned his head, squinting. "If I was a betting man, I'd say that it is only going to get easier to put on a mask after this. And impossible for you to take it off – to be honest, trusting. To work with a team."

Tony flashed back to his football game scenario. He clenched his eyes tight for a moment. "So you decided to be a dick to me to keep me away from your team? Yeah," Tony forced a laugh, "like that makes sense."

"It does." Aaron stepped close between Tony and Gideon. "This team is still reeling from Garner's case. None of us has had time to come to grips with being targeted. And Jason is famously difficult when he loses someone – a colleague – either to death or to resignation." Aaron stared at the older man. "You knew Elle was going to leave. And you don't want Tony to replace her for a lot of reasons. Some of which you just explained."

Gideon nodded. "Yes."

"Jesus, Gideon." Tony rubbed the back of his neck. "Passive aggressive, much?"

The older man raised his eyebrows and turned down the corners of his mouth. "Yes."

Tony laughed. "I so need to get drunk," he moaned. 

Aaron shrugged and crooked his thumb towards the table. "If Gideon is done apologizing –"

"That was an apology?" Tony scoffed.

Gideon's smile was there and gone. But, damn it, it lit up the guy's face just for a second. "Yes," he repeated, deadpan. He moved towards the table. "Sit. We've got things to discuss."

"Oh, could it be the bomb in my car? Or Trent Kort's disappearance? Or the fact that NCIS is about as screwed up as it is possible to be?" Tony nudged Aaron out of the way and threw himself into the chair between Jareau and Garcia. "I actually have some thoughts, myself."

Once Aaron and Gideon had taken their seats on the other side of the table, Tony caught his friend's eye. He let Aaron see his anger, his exhaustion, and his stubborn determination. "You should blow the bomb in my car."

Aaron's frown was immediate, but Gideon stretched back in his chair, considering.

"Why would we do that?" Aaron asked, head tilted.

"To kill me. To murder Tony DiNozzo once and for all." Tony's smile was as big and bright as he could make it. "You want Shepard to cough up every single connection? All of the dirt she's in on, the secrets she's been exploiting? Her network of black ops operatives? Her chain of communication? You want her to tell you where the security gaps are, who she's compromised and how?" He brought his hands together and then burst them apart. "Kaboom! Tell her the bomb blew. That I died. Kill off Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo and give me a new identity."

"Wait, you want us to tell NCIS, all of your teammates, your friends, that you're dead?" Jareau leaned forward. "You can't mean that."

"I think I do." It felt right. It felt good. Gibbs wanted to leave Tony swinging in the wind? Fine. Let's cut that umbilical cord. Tim had no respect for him. Ziva? Hell, Tony chuckled grimly, she'd throw another party.

"Oh, holy moley, sir, Agent, Tony, Agent Hotchner's friend Tony, please, please tell me you are not going to do that to the people that love you?" Garcia was watching Tony with wide blue eyes behind her purple glasses. Her hands had stalled above her keyboard mid-type. "You're mad. And hurt. And just up to here with the bullshit, I get that, but –"

"Garcia." Aaron's quiet voice somehow overpowered the analyst's rant. "That's a decision only Tony can make. But," Aaron reached out, his hand flat on the table between them, "I hope he'll be willing to give a decision like that a lot of thought. It would be – well, devastating is the only word I can come up with."

"You think?" Tony jerked his chin up. "To whom?"

"Wh- what about your family? Your friends?" Garcia couldn't seem to stop herself. "There's got to be –"

"Nope." Tony laughed. "Although my dad would definitely be first in line to inherit the trust fund my mom left me. I haven't seen the guy in years, but, believe me, as soon as the ink is dry on my death certificate he'd be here with his hands out. As for friends?" Tony shrugged. "They'd get over it."

"Abby wouldn't."

Aaron's statement hit Tony below the belt. 

"She wouldn't," the profiler insisted before Tony could reply. "You've talked about her. She hasn't been a very good friend to you in the past few months, but you can't believe she would be 'fine' with your death. Or Gibbs. No, let me finish," Aaron hurried on. "Once Gibbs finds out about Shepard's involvement, that she used you when he wasn't here to have your back, he would blame himself. It's what he does."

"True," Gideon agreed.

Tony didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to hear about Gibbs' guilt complex or that any of it was Tony's fault. "Hey, I thought you were my friend, Aaron?"

"I am. This is me acting like your friend." Aaron's voice was hoarse, caught up in his throat with fear and fierce, brutal honesty. "As an FBI agent, a member of the intelligence community, I may think faking your death is a good opportunity to insert you into Black Ops with a clean background as well as putting immense pressure on Shepard to testify. But, as your friend, I cannot – I will not do it."

"It's not your choice," Tony seethed.

In the silence between them, Tony's phone buzzed, dancing across the polished table. He glanced at the caller ID and then sat back, folding his arms.

Jareau leaned over to look at the screen. "It's Agent McGee."

"Tony," Aaron urged.

Tony tightened his lips and shook his head.

Aaron cursed and then, without looking away from Tony, issued his orders. "JJ, take Tony's phone out into the hallway and answer it. Tell Morgan and Reid to get McGee back here, but not to discuss the case. Make sure they keep him safe – you can explain about finding the bomb and that Kort is out of pocket. Explain Strauss's added security. But that is all. No mentions of Tony – alive or dead. Not until we have this out. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." She swept up Tony's phone and hurried out without looking back.

Tony watched her go, his gut cramping. Was this right? Was it smart? Was he just throwing a tantrum he would regret? He rubbed his hands over his face and then up into his hair.

"The Inspector General is emailing, Agent Hotchner." Garcia's computer dinged. "He's been read-in and is ready to proceed. But he would like to be put in touch with Agent DiNozzo."

"Good." Tony would have to make his report to the IG and probably the Secretary of Defense. They needed the information he'd collected – from Shepard as well as Benoit. "He should get my testimony before he confronts Shepard."

"You can do it in my office," Gideon suggested, rising. He laid one hand on Aaron's shoulder as the man started to join him. "Garcia can set up a video link, right?" When the woman nodded, Gideon pursed his lips. "Tony can update the IG and then we can talk about his … suggestion."

"Jason –" Aaron didn't look happy.

Gideon's flat smile was honest. "You have a lot of balls in the air right now, Hotch. Let me talk to Tony. I think I can help."

Tony very much doubted that. But, he considered as he followed the analyst and the profiler towards the door, Gideon would be easier to convince than Aaron.

The strong hand on his elbow didn't come as a surprise. Tony looked back into Aaron's eyes. 

"Promise you won't make a final decision before we talk."

Tony winked and pointed. "I'm not leaving until I get to meet with Agent Genius, remember? You've got that long to talk me out of this."

Some of the naked grief on Aaron's face faded. "Agreed."


	20. Chapter 20

Spencer stirred his coffee, frowning down at the patterns created by the plastic spoon as if analyzing a geographical profile. Or a chess match. Behind the closed doors of the conference room, Hotch had filled them in. He'd explained what Strauss had ordered, the heightened security alert for each of them – especially for the two NCIS agents currently hidden in Hotch and Gideon's offices. DiNozzo's file had been passed around the table. A pile of black-banded folders messengered straight from the CIA that contained enough information to begin a profile on Agent Trent Kort sat between Spencer and Garcia. He'd set them there after he'd sped through them and no one had touched them since. It was as if the folders were tainted, giving off an air of mold and death.

Garcia had just played Agent DiNozzo's video conference with the Inspector General. On Spencer's left, JJ sat, silent and tense, her fists tight on the table. On the other side, Garcia was upset, despair obvious in every movement, each phrase she whispered to the man on the screen as if he could hear her encouragement. And, across the table, Hotch was holding himself together with a kind of restraint Spencer had never seen before.

Raising his eyes to the large screen, Spencer considered Tony DiNozzo. Garcia had frozen the video image on DiNozzo's face, half-turned away as he signed off. The man's eyes were shadowed, his expression bleak. Empty. Spencer glanced at Hotch. He was frowning at the screen, peering at his friend as if trying to find any trace of hope. DiNozzo's words had been clear enough. The outline of how his director had betrayed him precise, filled in with offers of evidence the IG could pull from HR records, from CIA surveillance photos, from DiNozzo's own painstaking notes that he'd left with a woman named Janet Adams just this morning. 

How DiNozzo had managed to keep his report professional, blunt but without the anger and bitterness anyone would expect was beyond Spencer. There was even some self-deprecating humor. Clearly, DiNozzo was a complex man, with many layers and a lot of scar tissue that had been built from wounds taken long ago, years before this latest injury. It would take a professional counselor time and effort to dig beneath it, to reach the true self DiNozzo had buried there. 

They didn't have time for that. Not if DiNozzo was serious about destroying his life – his name, his relationships, his history, all of it – and continuing as someone else. Starting over. A new man with no history of betrayal or hurt. Too bad it was a fantasy. Whatever had happened to Agent DiNozzo – to Tony – couldn't be eliminated with an obituary. Whatever scars he wore – physically or on his psyche – would follow him into this supposedly new life. Tony couldn't change his past with a new story. No more than he could change the way he thought about himself by changing his name. He could pretend – to others, to strangers. But inside, alone, he'd still be Tony DiNozzo. He'd still be the agent – the man – he'd always been.

"That man is hurting."

Morgan's words didn't surprise Spencer. Derek must see a lot of himself in Tony DiNozzo. Ex-college athletes, both injured on the field, both finding their way to law enforcement and then federal agencies. They were physical, their intelligence hiding behind swift talk and banter and others' assumptions. Morgan wasn't the easiest colleague to get to know, not for Spencer, anyway. But he could see far enough beneath Morgan's skin to grasp that his was a painful past. That the confidence - the bravado - hid profound loss and hurt. There was a darkness there, at Derek's core. A darkness that rose to the surface when Spencer was least expecting it.

"He is not going to listen to us." Morgan waved one hand, including Spencer and JJ in the comment. "Not to strangers." Dark brows twisted together. "You realize that by insisting on this fake death that he's all but threatening to kill himself, right?"

JJ jerked in her seat. "No. It isn't –"

"I know," Hotch murmured. 

"No," JJ insisted. "He's not suicidal. He isn't thinking that taking himself out of the picture is going to stop the pain or solve anything. I mean," her gaze darted among the profilers around her, "I know you need to profile him, but he doesn't present that way to me."

Spencer cleared his throat. "I agree with JJ. The only aspect of this decision that feels like a suicide attempt is his hopelessness. But it's a hopelessness about his past – his present – not about the future." Spencer raised one hand, his fingers wide. "He may say he wants to kill off Tony DiNozzo, but I believe it's more likely that he wants Tony DiNozzo to be someone – somewhere – else. Not to stop existing, but to manifestly change that existence. I believe that Agent DiNozzo is smart enough to realize that he has skills and characteristics that are positive, that are valued and needed in this world."

"But he's hurt and exhausted. He's been betrayed, set up. Shepard used him like –" Morgan's expression was closed-off, his anger rising. "Like he was worthless. A tool, not a person. Not someone she was supposed to protect. And that's clouding his mind, keeping him from thinking clearly." Morgan snorted. "He's human, having a human response to this crapfest doesn't make him stupid."

Hotch's jaw was set. "That's why we need to make sure he has the time and resources he needs to make a better decision."

"The IG is biting – you could see it in his eyes." Morgan tapped the table. "Davis might have said the right things, insisted that DiNozzo take time and make sure of his decision before they pulled the trigger, but you could see he wants to move forward. He wants Shepard – wants her bad – and I get that. But, man," he shook his head, "I hope Davis isn't desperate enough to force the issue."

"I think that will depend entirely upon his interview with Shepard. If she gives up her connections easily, the Inspector General might be satisfied."

The CIA. Mossad. The Secretary of the Navy. Who knew how far Shepard's connections went or how high up they reached? The Inspector General had a mission to clean house, to make sure the American agencies at least operated above board. But, with the Secretary of Defense involved, the range of this investigation was daunting. Tony could be seen as a chess piece, one that could be easily sacrificed to reach the goal. For the moment, Tony was protected by other pieces, by Hotch and the BAU. Protected. Spencer imagined the board before him, Tony's piece tucked away in a corner. Unfortunately in this game, protected was another word for trapped.

And there was another dangerous piece still moving around on the board. Trent Kort.

Spencer dropped his gaze to the files on the table. Kort's files. He'd already read through them, his mind finding patterns and rhythms. Kort was compromised, but that might not be enough for the CIA to sanction him, to launch a real investigation and replace Kort in Benoit's operation with someone less likely to become the criminal he was pretending to be. The BAU had learned a lot about what the CIA might consider "acceptable behavior" last year. Even considering the danger to DiNozzo and McGee, Benoit might be considered too important an asset to jeopardize that relationship. To take Kort off the board.

He pulled DiNozzo's file into his lap. Something was missing. A lot, actually. Whoever had put this file together had not been able to see it; he – or she – hadn't noticed the inconsistencies. DiNozzo had sailed through his previous posts in small and large city police forces. In each city he rose quickly, moving between teams and departments with lightning speed. He'd worked a beat, worked vice and organized crime. He'd been a homicide detective. He'd spent months undercover. Worked fraud and domestic abuse. It was a strange, complex history for a young agent. Strange in that, as fast as DiNozzo moved, and as quickly as he rose through the ranks, there didn't seem to be a shred of resentment to be found. Letters of recommendation by the score, some typed and filed and others scrawled quickly on whatever paper came to hand. As if his friends and co-workers couldn't quite keep up.

The commendations from previous employers – and there were many - had been tucked into DiNozzo's sheet long after DiNozzo had moved on to a new job. One-hundred percent of the time, these commendations related to DiNozzo's last few cases, his final assignments on each job. It was like as he'd broken these last cases, DiNozzo himself was broken - as if he could not stay a moment longer, not even to receive the kudos and promotions he'd earned. Or, maybe it was because the agencies DiNozzo worked with didn't realize the officer's potential, didn't recognize his contributions, the breaks he'd made, until after he was gone. Tony DiNozzo made lasting impressions and deep friendships, but people only seemed to see him, to appreciate him, after he'd moved on.

Even counting all of the commendations, this was the record of an unappreciated man. It was the record of a man searching for something – for a place, a role, an agency or city or team that could live up to his needs, his expectations. Until NCIS, until his six years here, Tony had never found it.

Two hard raps on the conference room door pulled Spencer's attention from the file. Anderson stuck his head in, nodding quickly at Hotch's greeting.

"Nothing at the apartment building, sir. Bomb squad is finished and the scene has been released. And I picked up those things you requested." Anderson set a duffle bag down on the cabinet to his left. He leaned in and handed a thick envelope to Hotch across the table. "This was messengered over from Homeland. I thought you might need it."

"Thank you, Agent. Please make sure Agent McGee has what he needs."

"Yes, sir."

Hotch held the plain manila envelope in both hands without moving to open it. He took a deep breath and set it down in the center of the table. "This was sent from Assistant Director Tom Morrow of Homeland Security. Until last year, he was the Director of NCIS." Still staring at the table, he raised his eyebrows. "This is his personal file on Senior Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Tony's supervisor."

Hotch looked up, staring straight into Spencer's eyes. "Director Morrow insists that this file is to be regarded as Eyes Only. It contains more than facts and data. In this, Morrow has recorded conversations, summaries, and analyses of Agent Gibbs that will never appear in the man's employment jacket." Hotch's lips tightened. "I need you to read it. I don't think we can profile Tony – not completely – without this. I am not," Hotch snapped his mouth closed before continuing, "I am not unbiased in this matter. About this man, his background and his motivations. I want you to come to your own conclusions."

Next to Hotch, Morgan chuckled. "I think that cat is out of the bag."

"Granted," Hotch shot back, "but I haven't gone into detail about Gibbs' behavior. And I hope Spencer can put aside any negativity he's heard from me. It's important."

"Important for the case against Kort and Shepard?" Spencer already knew the answer.

"Important to assist Agent DiNozzo –" Hotch cut himself off and then started again. "To help Tony come to grips with this situation. And to help him make the best decision for himself about his future."

Spencer reached for the envelope, but Hotch had it pinned under his hand. 

"We're not actually supposed to have that, are we?" Morgan asked.

"Officially? No. But the Assistant Director of Homeland Security insists that we do everything we can to help Tony. He considers this situation a professional failure on his part to assure a smooth, healthy transition for NCIS after his departure. And," Hotch slid the envelope across the table, "his own personal failure to rein in Agent Gibbs and provide Agent DiNozzo – an excellent agent and a good man, in Morrow's words – with a safe, supportive workplace. That's good enough for me."

"I'm going to need a few minutes," Spencer offered. He glanced around at the others. "And maybe some privacy." He really didn't need Hotch or Morgan looking over his shoulder while he read Gibbs' file. While he scrawled notes across the white board.

Hotch stood, gathering up Morgan and JJ with a look. "I'll leave you here with Miss Garcia. She can help you with any further data you might need."

"Anything," Garcia whispered intently. "Anything that will help Agent Handsome and Hurting get his head on straight." She fluttered her fingers. "I'm about to be all up in this Gibbs guy's business. Point me in the direction, Reid."


	21. Chapter 21

"Gibbs?" Abby didn't bother whispering as she opened the unlocked door. Either Gibbs was home or he wasn't, and no amount of whispering was going to keep him from hearing her platform boots on his hardwoods. And he'd better be home, because Abby was on her last nerve.

"Abigail. How nice to see you."

Abby stopped short as she caught sight of Ducky pouring tea out of an honest-to-goodness teapot. In Gibbs' kitchen. Making tea in Gibbs' kitchen. With Gibbs sipping from a cup. A mug. Okay, at least it was a mug. Because if the Bossman had been sipping from a dainty porcelain tea cup with one finger raised, she'd have to just lay down on the floor and give up. 

"Today is just so weird." She flung her hands up and then dropped them to hang at her sides, all of her pent-up energy gone. "So weird."

"You can say that again, my dear. Would you care for a cup?"

"Of tea?" she squeaked.

"Tea. Coffee." Ducky gestured towards the half-full carafe on Gibbs' counter. "I don't know what else we can offer you."

Choices. Abby couldn't – her mind was on overdrive, still trying to take in everything she'd witnessed at NCIS. How did she get here? The entire day was a huge blur. "Can I just – can I sit? I think I need to sit."

Gibbs was frowning, his cup banging down on the table with a thump. "Hey, you okay?"

Collapsing into the chair next to him, her knees together, feet dragging, Abby tilted her head to consider Gibbs. Her Silver Fox. The man she'd been waiting for; the one she'd been hoping, praying, and storming the cosmos to bring back home. He was supposed to fix everything. To plug up the holes and smooth over the sharp, nasty waves that were rocking the boat. Messing up her life. Messing up her friendships. To make it like it used to be.

"Everything's wrong," she said. "Everything. You came back and left again. Tony left. McGee left. Ducky and Balboa and Jenkins and Rush and most of the agents and most of the admins left. And then," Abby opened her eyes wide, jerking backwards as if from a blow, "then it got even worse. Why, Gibbs? Why did it get worse when you came back when it was supposed to get better?"

"Oh, dear," Ducky murmured. "I hope Mister Palmer is all right. Perhaps I should call –"

"Jimmy is still there. He is still there. That's one." Abby stuck one finger in the air. "One person from my world that's where he's supposed to be. He's not happy. He'd like to go, even had his coat on, but then there was that poor sailor on the table. The one who'd died in that training accident. So sad. And he didn't want to leave him. Jimmy said he was going to do his job, not for the director, or for NCIS, but because the sailor's family was going to want to bury their boy and he wasn't going to prolong their grief if he could help it."

"What does it mean, Gibbs?" Abby wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make sure he was real. She wanted a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But she didn't. She didn't reach out. She didn't hold out her arms. Because as much as she wanted her Gibbs and her Tony and her Tim and her world back and in order, she wanted answers more. "No one called me. Other phones were ringing, Ringing and ringing. But no one called me. No one said a word. You all just – left." She glared.

"'And then it got worse'?" Gibbs was staring. Glaring. As much as he could glare through that weird hair and the old-man mustache. 

Abby shivered.

"Abby."

"Yes, I heard you," she managed. "And, yes, it got worse. People came in. People went out. There's a new sheriff and a new deputy and the MCRT is a wreck, with files and computers and cables all over everywhere. And you just flinched. Since when do you flinch, Gibbs? Why are you flinching?" Abby heard her own voice rising, heard the panic and knew that the high-pitched shrieking would be next. Or the yelling. She didn't have the energy for a tantrum right now.

"Because the mess is my fault." Gibbs laid one hand on Abby's arm as if he could stabilize her, keep her together long enough to hear him. "I came back this morning and threw DiNozzo's and McGee's crap back on their desks. Thought I'd let them know who was back in charge. So don't worry about that."

"'Don't worry about that?' Really? That's what you're telling me?" Abby jerked her arm away from him, frowning, staring back and forth between the two men. "You – you have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? You don't have any answers for me." She slammed her elbow down on the table and set her forehead in her hand. "Okay, okay, paradigm shift. Let's back up the DeLorean and take this over." She jerked upright, brittle smile plastered across her face. "Good morning, Gibbs! Are you back? Officially? Official officially? All spit and polished and – well, that's not going to work." Abby waved one finger in front of Gibbs' face, probably too close. "'Cause you still have that thing growing on your lip and look like the cervezas and Hawaiian shirts are packed in your bottom drawer in case you miss them."

"Abigail Sciuto! Please!" Ducky didn't shout but he got his point across with that blistering accent. "You are not making a drop of sense, young lady. Now, please –"

"Nope." Abby shook her head slowly. "You don't get to tell me I'm not making sense when this whole day is like a dream – a nightmare – and you and Gibbs are not helping! So tell me, is he back? Are you back, Gibbs? Reinstated? You said you threw their stuff around to show them who's Boss. Not nice, but pure Gibbs, I guess. So you are in charge?"

"It's complicated, Abs. I thought I was, Jen – Shepard – told me I was. But the paperwork is -" Gibbs shrugged.

"So Shepard was behind all this hinky stuff. I got that vibe from Janet even if she wouldn't tell me anything else." Abby tapped her fingers against her chin. "And then, of course, Shepard being led out in handcuffs was a super big clue."

"Shepard – what?" Gibbs voice was part disbelief and part anger. Okay, that was more normalish.

"Handcuffs. And not the fun kind that Tony had hidden in his drawer." Abby frowned. "I wonder what happened to them. Because the fun-Tony sort of left the building a couple of weeks after you resigned, Gibbs. I kept telling him he didn't have to pretend to be you, all gruff and grumpy and serious, but since that was after I'd lectured him for weeks on how Gibbs would have done things, I'm not surprised that the guy was confused."

"Wait, Abby. Go back. Who arrested Shepard?"

Abby narrowed her eyes. "An answer for an answer, Gibbs. Are you back? And what about Tony? Is he leaving? Transferred, given his own team, what? And is Tim your SFA now?"

"I want back." Gibbs was fuming. "I want my team back. Jen said it could happen, that she'd been waiting for it, even changed my retirement to a request for a leave of absence. DiNozzo is my SFA."

Abby closed her mouth. She leaned in. "Tony was promoted, Gibbs. He's a Senior Agent now. She can't just wave a magic wand and oh." Her mouth snapped closed again, her mind juggling puzzle pieces that she hadn't been able to fit together before. "That's what Janet was talking about? About trying to protect Tony? Could the FBI arrest her for messing with someone's promotion, because that seems harsh."

"'The FBI'?"

"Quit repeating me! Didn't I say that?" Abby nodded. "Fornell. He and a team came and got Shepard after the Inspector General left. After the Marines took Ziva out before that which I don't think I mentioned." She held up two fingers. "Handcuffs, again."

Gibbs shoved away from the table, leaping to his feet. "What the hell is going on?" He grabbed the cell phone from his pocket and frowned down at it.

"Jethro, wait." Ducky was beside him in an instant. "Let's not start throwing our weight around before we understand what's happening here."

"Duck-"

"That's what started this mess in the first place, isn't it?" Ducky asked, gentle but firm. "You rushed back to your desk, assuming that you had the right information. You acted without verifying. Without thinking, really. Do you wish to continue that trend? Even after what it's cost you today?"

"Answers, Gibbs. Please." Abby couldn't hold it together much longer. "I came here, I came to you because you always have answers for me. Or a way to get them." She felt the tears pressing against her eyes, trying to get out, to open the floodgates and let the waterfall of emotion gush out. "Tony is gone, he won't answer his phone. Tim, too. I know where Ziva is, I know that she's safe, at least. But," she clenched her hands into fists and closed her eyes tight. No. No tears. No shouting. Not now. Abby pushed it all back down and opened her eyes. "But Fornell was angry. And scared. He was scared, Gibbs. He looked at me and shut his mouth and I knew – I knew that something terrible was going on."

Gibbs was struggling. He wanted to move – to go, to do, to protect his people. Abby could see that. She watched him struggle against his nature, watched him hang onto his own control. Finally, his cell phone clutched in one fist, he turned back to her. "Where is Ziva? Where is she safe?"

"At the Israeli Embassy. The Inspector General fired her and demanded her credentials." Abby's voice wobbled. "She's going to be sent back to Israel."

"And the handcuffs?"

Abby smiled. "I was told that Ziva didn't like the way one Marine was looking at her."

Gibbs barked a laugh. "Okay. Okay." He slid back into his chair. "We can deal with that situation later. But what the hell could the FBI want with Shepard?"

No. He couldn't be – Abby sat up straight. "Did you not hear what I said about Tony and Tim? I mean, I'm sure the director has friends, lawyers and people who can help her. If she deserves help. But, Gibbs," she grabbed his sleeve, "where is Tony? And Tim?"

"Pouting."

"Jethro!"

Abby snatched her hand away as if it burned. "'Pouting?' Did you just – did you honestly just say Tony and Tim would be off pouting, intentionally making me worry because they were mad at you? Did Tony call in the bomb scare to his own apartment building because he was 'pouting'? And the FBI and Homeland, are they involved because of a 'pouting' NCIS agent?" She didn't know this man, this mustached beer drinker who spent all of his time on a Mexican beach instead of with his family. "Who are you?"

"'Homeland'?"

"'The bomb squad'?"

"Listen to me, Leroy Jethro Gibbs." Anger was fast replacing all of the other emotions Abby was trying to lasso. Anger at Gibbs. Rage. It destroyed her to feel this way, to focus all of her frustration on the man who was like a father to her. Who'd lost his daughter and wife so long ago to an evil man's vengeance. It was awful, beyond loss, beyond sorrow. But, this? This was bad, too. Terrible. 

"I'm sorry, Gibbs, but I can't do anything for your girls, for Shannon and Kelly, but this? This is my family. My own family. Tony and Tim." Abby felt the chill on her skin, the twin streams of her tears on her cheeks as the anger shook loose her control. "Tony and Tim are out there somewhere, in trouble. Do you even care? Or are you still so wrapped up in your past that you can't see beyond your own pain?" She knew she was being mean and she might regret her words later, but, damn it, couldn't he see? "You came back for Ziva. For Fornell's little girl." She grabbed both of Gibbs' hands and held on painfully tight. "Can you pretend you're still in Mexico? Can you pretend I called you there and told you Tony and Tim had vanished and everything was hinky and we needed you? Would you do something, then?"

Anger. Hurt. Pain. Loss. Frustration. Despair. Rage. They were all there, behind the blue eyes. Those same blue eyes that had meant comfort and love and respect to Abby for so long. She held on. She was not going to back down now, not now. Not when everything was going wrong. When her boys were in trouble.

"Do they not deserve your help?"

"I didn't say that." The words barely made it past Gibbs' clenched teeth.

"I think you did," Abby insisted. "Tony and Tim – they're men. They shouldn't ever need help, right? Because you don't. You don't need Ducky. Or me. Or Fornell sometimes. Or Mike Franks." Her heart was beating fast, her breathing in gasps, in choking anger and disappointment. Her hands unfurled, one muscle at a time, falling away from Gibbs. "Hypocrite. You are a damned hypocrite."

Abby swallowed hard and turned away. He didn't get to see her cry, not like this. Only someone she trusted should see her like this. Torn apart and flailing for something to hold on to. Or someone. She wanted to stand, to leave, to get her own damned answers if she had to march into the Hoover Building on her own, but her legs wouldn't listen and everything was blurred.

"My dear girl." An arm wrapped around her shoulders, slim and strong. Cool fingers brushed her cheek. Abby leaned into the tweed-clad shoulder. Ducky didn't say anything else, he just held her until the worst of it was over. Until she could breathe and think and be embarrassed for the mess she was making. There was a glass in her hand and she drank. Water, crisp and clean. Just what she needed. Something to wash it all away. A handkerchief was next, a soft, cotton finely folded cloth that absorbed the last few tears and wiped away the smeared make-up. She took one deep breath and then she was ready.

"I'm sorry, Abby."

Gibbs' words took her breath away again. She kept her gaze on her hands twisting in her lap.

"I'm sorry I left and sorry I came back the way I did. Mostly, I'm sorry that you think I wouldn't care if something happened to Tony and Tim. I –" Gibbs cleared his throat. "I've always had their sixes."

She nodded. He did. He had. Once upon a time.

"I don't know what's been happening, Abs. But I'll find out. You can trust me to find out."

Ducky gave her some distance, patting her shoulder with one hand. "And I will do everything I can. I hope you know that."

"I do, Ducky. I do." Abby looked up at Gibbs. "I want to trust you. I want it so much. But I want answers more."

"I'm going to get them for you."

"No." Abby shook her head hard enough that the ends of her pigtails lashed against her face. "I mean, yes, good, but I'm not going to sit here and wait. I'm going back to NCIS. I'm going to do what I should have done in the first place instead of running here. I'm going to check the images of the bomb investigation and see if Tony or Tim are there. And who else was there. I'm going to find where their cell phones are now and where they've been. And then I'm going to corner Janet Adams and demand she tell me what's going on."

Abby stood up to find Ducky at her side, his coat hanging over one arm. 

"I'll go with you. Perhaps I will be able to handle Mrs. Adams while you tango with your machines."

They both looked to Gibbs. It felt right, normal in a way. But it felt wrong, too. As if they still couldn't help looking to him to tell them they were doing the right thing. To pat them on the head and send them on their way.

"I'll handle Fornell." Gibbs grimaced. "And the IG. I'll get your answers, Abby. I promise you that."

"Do that, Gibbs. I –" she made sure her voice didn't wobble and her shoulders were straight before she continued, "I am trusting you to do that. To have their sixes. And mine." She headed towards the door, Ducky following.

"I won't let you down."

Abby heard him. One hand on the doorknob, she stilled for a second, nodded, and then left without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Abby is such a problem! She insisted it was time for her chapter and wouldn't let me write anything else. Sheesh! Again, my readers and commenters and kudo-ers (that's a word) are the best. Fantastic. Many, many thanks!


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple more chapters - we're headed towards the conclusion - finally! Just a few more to wrap things up. Warnings in this one for language.

The atmosphere in Gideon's office was more relaxed than Tony expected. While Tony was seated behind the profiler's desk giving his detailed report to the Inspector General, Gideon had perched a set of reading glasses on his nose and dived into a BAU file, spreading notes and photos across his lap and the chair next to him and acting like nothing important was happening. Just another day at the office. Crazy CIA agents wielding bombs. Betrayal reaching deep and wide. Misfeasance and malfeasance twin sisters dancing around Jennifer Shepard's office and cackling like Macbeth's witches. Yawn. Color Jason Gideon unfazed.

Tony didn't mind. He had a lot to think about. Chin perched on his folded hands on top of the laptop Garcia had set up for him, he let the past few hours roll across his inner eye like a middle school film strip. The Gibbs-Hippie crouched behind his desk. Bing. Next slide. Tony's stuff piled up like unimportant crap on his desk. Bing. Shepard's red file and visible smirk. Bing. Tim's call. Bing. Aaron's determined jaw when he told Tony about the bomb. Bing. Bing. Bing.

"It's an interesting case."

Gideon's low drawl tore the film strip in two and released Tony from the memories. He blinked. "Yeah?"

The profiler grunted. "Started off as fairly standard, well-organized bank robberies in Los Angeles. Perfectly timed. Targets selected for ease in access and quick getaways. But then –" he snorted.

Tony lifted his head from his hands, curious in spite of the weight of apathy that felt like a coating of lead over his emotions. "Then what?"

Gideon's gaze flicked up to meet Tony's. "Then the unsub began to display the behavior that changed this from simple bank robberies into something else. Do you know what we call this behavior?"

"Yes, Professor." Tony rolled his eyes. "It's called the signature. The one aspect of the crime that the _unsub_ – fancy word for perp if you ask me – can't help but repeat. It's more than an MO." Tony's teeth pulled back in a parody of a grin. "And usually a hell of a lot more twisted." He jerked his chin towards the files. "What's this guy's damage?"

"Here." Gideon tossed a handful of pictures and a flash drive onto the desk. "Take a look."

"I thought you said I'd make a terrible profiler." Tony tugged the closest photos towards him, unable to stop himself. Naked people. Naked people doing … things. Worst porno ever, Tony couldn't help thinking. Not only weren't these people built like the perfect Hollywood types, but, God, they looked horrified. Tony figured he probably did, too.

"That's not what I said."

Tony glanced up, already tired of Gideon's crap. "Yes, you did."

Gideon stared over the tops of his glasses. "No, I said you'd made some bad choices. The reasons for those, well, we can talk about that some other time."

Dredging up enough energy to be resentful, Tony glared at the annoying man sitting across from him. "Thanks but no thanks. I think I've had enough ego-bashing for one, well, lifetime."

No reaction. Gideon barely blinked. "I said you'd be a terrible member of this team. In order to succeed at undercover work, you have to be an excellent profiler. Because, as opposed to working with a team like ours, you are alone, relying only on what you can observe, what you can deduce from the speech and behavior of those around you. Criminals. Liars." Gideon pursed his lips. "People who are possibly going to kill you if you choose wrong."

Tony felt his face scrunching up in confusion. "I cannot figure you out, Gideon." His gut was churning. He didn't want this, not another lecture from the jerk. He didn't care if Gideon took back every word he'd spat out at him a few hours ago. About the Macalusos. Jeffrey White. The crazy bartender. Tony pushed down on the irritation, heels of his hands pressing against his eyes.

The older man chuckled once. "Tell me what you see."

"This again," Tony muttered. He yanked the laptop open and shoved the drive into the USB. "Anything to shut you up." Bank security footage. Video, but no audio. It didn't matter – Tony had been on too many stake-outs to not be able to do perfunctory lip-reading. And he was growing to regret that little skill pretty damn quick. "That is –"

Gideon didn't let him stop there. "What is it?"

"It's nasty," Tony insisted. He pointed at the perp on the screen, pacing back and forth, threatening, demanding the man and woman embrace, kiss, ye gods, there was more. "I'll say it's not your run-of-the-mill bank robber. The guy's, well," he swallowed his words and shook his head. No. He couldn't make a joke about this. "Talk about humiliation."

"What were you going to say?"

Gideon was leaning forward, glasses in one hand, file in the other. He was staring – glaring at Tony. Demanding. Stern.

"I don't think -"

"Don't think about it. Say it. Say what you were going to say."

"I don't want to," Tony shot back. "It was –"

"Inappropriate? Stupid?" Gideon waved his glasses like a magic wand. "Doesn't matter. Just say it."

"Look, you're not my boss. I don't even like you." Anger sent lightning bolts from Tony's gut out along each nerve, to buzz against his skin, waking up every bit of anger and bitterness Tony'd been ignoring. Damn it. Why couldn't Gideon leave him the hell alone? 

"I don't care. I don't matter – neither do you. Not in this job." Gideon narrowed his eyes, a nasty smile playing across his mouth. "Didn't they teach you that at NCIS? That it's not about you?"

Tony's hands shook with rage, his heartbeat a frantic tattoo against his chest. Bastard. "I'm not going to play your manipulative little games, _Jason_ – I'm not going to let you insult and prod me into saying something unprofessional." Visions of the MCRT replaced Gideon's office, Gibbs standing in front of him, demanding updates, demanding leads, clues and hints that Tony was supposed to pull out of thin air while the Marine did another coffee run. Tony's anger grew, but his need to solve this puzzle, to gather his thoughts and make a discovery about this perp, skyrocketed. His hands itched for that pad of paper he'd left in Aaron's office. His mind was throwing up possibilities about Gideon's unsub whether he wanted it to or not.

"'Unprofessional?'" Gideon repeated. His face scrunched up, shoulders rising. "Who cares? We're brainstorming, we're not going to stop to make sure everything we say is perfect." 

"Funny, you had a lot to say about my mistakes earlier." Tony tried to smile but it came out wrong.

"So did you. I make them. You make them. We try to make them in here," Gideon pointed at the floor, and then at the window, "before we go out there. This is the place for mistakes, for stupid ideas and ridiculous theories. For politically incorrect statements. No one in here should be worried about being crass or unenlightened when there is someone out there torturing and killing people."

"Crass. Fancy word for asinine." Tony didn't buy it. Not from Gideon. Gideon was pushing him, angling Tony to prove that he was an idiot so he could take it to Aaron with a smirk and an I-told-you-so. "Hell, on the MCRT that would just get me a slap upside the head. Here, who knows how you'd use it against me." Tony tried to swallow the anger, but it kept coming up. Kept growing. Images of Gibbs in the bullpen. Yelling. Turning that annoyed, disappointed look on Tony. One hand already raised when he came around the corner, expecting – _expecting_ Tony to be saying something stupid. God, he wished Gibbs was here. Right here, all steely-blue eyes and fury, his hand ready to connect with the back of Tony's head. Tony would fucking kill him.

Gideon flung out his hands, his voice carrying a bitter, impatient edge. "I don't use people's insights against them, DiNozzo. If they're wrong, they're wrong and we discard them. We don't muzzle ourselves when people's lives are in danger. Do you think those people on that tape care what you say? If it stops this from happening again? If it saves lives? We don't have the luxury of worrying about looking stupid." He was nearly growling. "Only stupid people worry about that."

"You –" Teeth clenched, Tony couldn't form the words. The anger clawed through him tearing away thought, reason, everything.

"Call me names later." Gideon shot up from the chair and slammed his hands down on the desk, looming. "You are not stupid, DiNozzo. Say it. Finish your thought. Say it."

He couldn't stop himself. "The damned perp is staging them like it's a movie and he's the psychopathic director from hell. And not one of the actors fucking signed up for this disgusting drama but they don't know how to say no to a no-talent hack armed with a semi-automatic weapon!" Tony was on his feet, shoving into Gideon's face, shouting, red in the face. "There, are you happy? One more juvenile movie reference from DiNozzo, one more stupid, ridiculous, moronic quip that tells everyone just how crappy of investigator he really is!"

"A movie."

Tony frowned at the gentle tone. "Yes, a God damned movie!" The storm of Tony's rage was breaking up, blown away by Gideon's calm. He should fight back. Threaten to break Tony's fingers or shove a boot up his ass.

Gideon took a step back, staring over Tony's right shoulder. "A psychopathic director. A drama." Something shifted behind the man's eyes, insight blooming. He was so focused that he was ignoring Tony completely.

Tony blinked, breathing deep. His heartrate steadied, the tunnel vision receding. He heard a commotion out in the hallway, voices, footsteps, but he couldn't look away from the dawning realization on Gideon's face.

The profiler put his glasses back on and searched through the files. "We'd profiled him as a repeat offender. With a record. His early robberies were too well organized for a first timer." He found what he was looking for and reached for his phone, pressing a speed-dial button. He stared at Tony as he raised it to his ear. "Garcia? Check local prisons within the time-frame for experimental programs. Group therapy where the inmates were expected to act out difficult scenes from their past. They called the technique psychodramas. Good. Let Hotch know." He lowered his phone. "Thank you, Agent DiNozzo. That was helpful."

"That – helpful?" Tony sank back into his chair, drained.

"Yes. Insightful." Gideon was staring again. "You connect behavior, analyze people's motivations and actions through the filter of movies. Of stories." He grimaced and nodded his head. "It's a good method."

"Wh – it is?" Tony had no idea what was going on. He glanced at the door – somebody was trying to get in, jiggling the knob, banging on the frame.

"We all use stories," Gideon continued, cleaning up the photos and files, knocking them into even stacks. "Stories help us place ourselves within the world. Tell us which character we're playing, who is the hero, who is the villain. Drama was first created to give people explanations, to give them a way to understand and live in their world. Mothers and fathers use stories to teach their children ideals of good and evil. Mythology and legend are filled with morality plays, with circumstances that frame reality." He shrugged. "We understand the hardship of friends from different, taboo cultures. We recognize the villains. We long for rags to riches. We're to be wary of mistaken identity leading to mistaken revenge. Go back far enough and every plot is found in the earliest writings of each civilization. The Bible. The Talmud. The Rigveda. People find those stories extremely relevant, very useful in living their lives."

Sitting boneless in Gideon's chair, Tony watched the other man. Listened to the even words, the simple descriptions of Tony's process. Gideon wasn't ridiculing him. He wasn't making fun of Tony. Not this time. Tony frowned.

Gideon stood and faced him, smiling. "Hamlet said it best."

Tony made the connection. "Hamlet. 1948. Laurence Olivier starred and directed. Jeanne Simmons played Ophelia." He cleared his throat. "Hamlet did say it best. Act two, scene two. 'The play's the thing wherein we'll catch the conscience of the King.'"

"Exactly," Gideon agreed. Holding his file in both hands, he gestured towards Tony's chest. "Your boss sounds like an idiot, by the way." He moved towards the door.

"You have no idea," Tony murmured, watching him.

One hand on the knob, Gideon turned. "Are you ready?"

"No," Tony immediately replied, muscles locking up, hands gripping the arms of the chair. Gideon watched, impassive. Unmoving. Tony wondered if he would wait forever. Tony let out a long, loud breath and dropped his chin to his chest. "Yes."

"One more thing."

"What," Tony groaned. He looked up when Gideon stayed quiet. "What?"

"People are," Gideon gave his head a slow shake back and forth, "people are the strangest players on this stage. They get their lines confused. Their motivations get turned around. They screw up. Let you down. I've let more than a few down in my time. Family. Friends." A profound sadness shone from Gideon's eyes. "Elle. Reid. Hotch. I've let them all down. And yet." He stopped. 

"They forgive you." Tony knew who was outside the door.

"They do."

Gideon opened the door and stepped out, making room for Tim McGee to barge inside before he closed it again.


	23. Chapter 23

"Tony! I heard you – I knew I heard you!" Tim's face was pale, his hands reaching out before he made his way around the desk and hauled Tony out of his chair. "I knew you were okay. I knew it." He threw his arms around Tony and held on tight. "Thank God." Tim pushed him to arms' length. "Damn it, why did they let me think – how could they –" he dragged him into a hug again. "Just, I'm – I can't –"

Tony patted Tim on the back and then patted him again, a little harder, trying to get his attention. "Tim. It's okay. I'm fine. Let's, let's sit down, hey, hey!"

Tim backed off just far enough to look him over, head to foot. "Okay. Okay. You're fine. Everything's fine."

And then he punched him. Hard.

Tony gritted his teeth, one hand on his shoulder. "Thanks for avoiding the face, McRocky. Are you done now?"

Blowing out a breath, Tim stepped back. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm done."

"Good. I think I've had enough punches thrown at me today." Tony held up both hands. "Not literal punches, calm down. But that other kind? You know, the gut punches to the soul?" He narrowed his eyes. "I don't intend to take any more of those."

"I know what you mean." Tim dropped into the chair Gideon had just vacated, wiping a hand across his brow. "This is –" He dropped his hand, peering at Tony from under raised eyebrows. "If I had any idea waking up this morning that the day would go like this, I think I would have booked the first plane to, well, anywhere."

"And I'd be in the seat right beside you," Tony agreed. He perched on the edge of Gideon's desk, hands in his lap. "I'm sorry you were scared, Tim. Sorry about Kort and Benoit. I never would have put you in danger like that. I hope you believe me."

"Of course I believe you." Tim leaned in, earnest and little sad. "But I hope you know that I'd have your back. That you could have come to me. I'm supposed to be your partner, Tony –"

"Yeah, you are supposed to be my partner." Tony let his weariness show, the fatigue of constant watchfulness, the way his mind and muscles were so tired of trying to protect himself – not just from Kort and Benoit, from bombs and rogue agents and weapons dealers, but from Gibbs and Shepard, from Gideon, from Tim and Ziva's dismissal and his own despair. "That hasn't been working out so well, has it? Not for me."

"Tony –"

"Let me finish." Tony didn't yell. He didn't lash out. But he didn't beg, either. His voice was even and controlled. "Can you do that? Because, if not, say so. The two of us aren't so good at heart-to-hearts, and you're not so good at listening when I have something important to tell you." He sighed. "I want to share things with you, but, if you're not interested, I won't waste my time or yours laying it out."

Something in Tim's expression said that he understood. That he was going to listen, that, this time, Tim would try – try hard – to put his own needs on hold and actually hear what Tony was going to say. "I can listen."

"I'm not convinced. A little while ago I mentioned that I'd been taking gut punches all day. Hits to my ego, my spirit, my trust. My director set me up to be killed. My director. My car has a bomb strapped to it. My - my former mentor decided I didn't deserve any kind of heads up about him coming back and then shoved me aside to get his job back." Tony pointed at Gideon's door. "It took a group of strangers to support me. To listen. And they believed me without me having to beat them over the head with the facts." Tony shook his head. "When I said that, when I told you I had taken hits, deep, bleeding gashes to my soul, what was your immediate response? To tell me how hard your day has been."

The stubborn set of Tim's chin came and went. Tony held his gaze, demanding that Tim get it, get past the knee-jerk defensive reaction and do what he said he'd do – listen. It took longer than it should have, but Tim pressed his lips together, nodded, and sat back in his chair. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'd make an excuse, but," Tim huffed. "Go ahead. I'm listening."

"Okay, here goes." Tony linked his fingers together so he wouldn't fidget. "I've been alone for a long time. Longer than you can imagine," he began. Time for truth. Or as much of it as he thought Tim could grasp. "That's okay, I can work like that. After all," he knew his smile was grim, "I've trusted people before, partners, bosses, parents, and, frankly, I probably will again. But I know," Tony tapped his chest, right over his heart, "I know that those people can change and shift and pull out on you when you least expect it. So, although it hurts, and it's crap and that feeling of being betrayed never quite goes away, I understand it."

Tony looked down at his clasped hands. "Coming to NCIS? Well, you might not know this, but Gibbs came up to Baltimore and found me there. We worked a case together and, by the end of it, I needed to leave. Not because I'd screwed up," he added quickly, silencing any sarcastic reaction from Tim before he could let loose. "Gibbs offered me a job. Because I was good." Tony straightened his shoulders. "He offered me more than that. He offered me a partner. A Marine – someone I could look up to and trust. That feeling lasted a couple of years, and it was good. We worked well together. And then," Tony pressed his lips together. "And then it didn't."

He could see that Tim wanted to say something, to stammer apologies, to ask questions. But he managed to rein it in. He nodded to Tony and closed his mouth and waited.

"But I was committed. I liked NCIS. Liked helping our military. It opened my eyes to a whole huge world past big city law enforcement. It challenged me – such a small organization with such a big scope needed me to use a lot of my skills and helped me develop new ones. So, even though Gibbs changed, left me without a partner but with an asshole boss who loved to cut me down in front of anyone and everyone, I stayed. I figured we'd get it back, that balance. As soon as the team was filled, we'd get that feeling of respect and partnership back. And then Kate died." Tony stopped. He turned, his gaze on the scene beyond Gideon's window, but his inner film showing Kate lying in a spreading pool of blood on a sunny rooftop.

A heavy hand on his knee drew him back from that moment. The hot spray of blood on his face. The loss dropping him to his knees. Tony met Tim's eyes and recognized the grief there, brother to his own.

"And Ziva came, and the jokes got worse and the disrespect blew up until our 'team'," his tone was cutting, "became three against one, with you firmly on Gibbs' and Ziva's side. And then," Tony's eyes narrowed at the memory, "then Gibbs literally blew up and blew off the team. Blew me off with a 'you'll do' and literally nothing else. And you and Ziva stayed, but the blow-off was there just the same. So, yeah, I've been alone. For months. And maybe I wasn't the best team lead ever, but I was doing it, doing the job. Even when my teammates weren't."

"So taking on an undercover assignment from the director felt like a God-send. A gift." He chuckled. "A chance to show her, to show you, to show everyone what skills I had. Bringing in an international arms dealer like Rene Benoit with no back-up, no real undercover identity, and no one there, ready to step in if I got into trouble? Hell, that was just what I needed." He laughed again, and if it sounded a little manic, Tim could sue him. "But, again, the joke was on me."

He stood, hands shoved into his pockets. "Payback, huh? The jokester gets played. What's even funnier, Probie, is that I should have known better. I should have stopped trusting people a hell of a long time ago. Back in college or even before. But, what can I say?" He lifted his shoulders. "It's like the frog and the scorpion. It's not in my nature. Except, in this little fable, I'm the damned frog."

Tim stood. "I –" He stopped. Put his hands in his pockets. Pulled them out again. Rubbed at the back of his neck. Finally he stood up straight and faced Tony.

"I'm sorry. I've been a crap teammate and an even worse friend."

"You have."

"But, I don't want to be the scorpion, Tony. I don't want to be the one that brings you down. Can I, I don't know, swim alongside you? Or be the log you can trust to rest on? Or -" Tim's face screwed up - "Or can we drop the analogies and I can try to be a better teammate and friend?"

Tony didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke and brush it off. He didn't pull a face or insult Tim's wit or pretend it all hadn't happened. "You know I shouldn't forgive you, or trust you. Not right away."

"Maybe you shouldn't."

"I told Aaron they should explode the bomb. Blow up my beautiful Mustang. Take me out of the picture."

Tim took the blow and faced him. "That's what Agent Jareau meant. She didn't tell me you were gone, but she didn't tell me you were alive, either."

"I still don't know if I'm going to stay or if I'm going to let the IG kill off Tony DiNozzo and demand a new life. One far from here."

"I – I hope you don't do that."

"Why?" Tony honestly wanted to know.

"Because I'd miss Tony DiNozzo. He's a great investigator. He has a lot to teach me. About being an agent. About making connections. Working smarter. And he's a good friend." Tim's eyes were wet. "And he deserves a lot better, but I'm just selfish enough to want him to hang around and make me prove that to him."

Tony tilted his head, considering. "It might be a lot easier for you if I just leave. Let the SecDef deal with Shepard, give Gibbs his job back, and leave you as SFA. It kinda solves all of your problems."

"It might." Tim's jaw was tense. "But I don't want that. I don't want to be Gibbs' SFA. Not if the cost is Very Special Agent Tony DiNozzo."

Tony struggled with his doubts. Doubts about Tim. About NCIS getting their act together and not screwing him in some new and exciting way. Doubts about being back under Gibbs' thumb, being forced to give back his job, his promotion, his standing. Doubts about himself and his ability to insist on getting what he deserved. But could he walk away? Could he, really? Outside of the anger and hurt and betrayal, could Tony close the door on this life? On Tim and Abby, Ducky and Jimmy. On Mister Franklin who lived next door and was always forgetting his keys. On Allen, the Security Guard on the desk most weekends when Tony would show up to make notes he didn't want to forget. 

He'd made mistakes, just like Gideon had said. He hadn't looked into Shepard's assignment, hadn't insisted Gibbs get the hell away from his desk. He hadn't called Tim and Ziva on their crap. But maybe that shouldn't cost him everything - and everyone. Maybe that was a decision for later.

"You can still leave, if you want," Tim explained, flushing red to the tips of his ears, "I mean, if you make that decision later. But to just go – pretend to die -" his mouth opened and closed. "I'm just glad I could hear you through the wall. That someone riled you up enough to yell."

Oh. "Gideon," Tony muttered. "That guy –" He had no words for the manipulative, insightful bastard.

"Besides," Tim's eyes opened comically wide, "Abby would kill me."

"Yeah." Tony clapped a hand on Tim's shoulder. "Abby would figure it out in about five seconds and then kill us both."

"So –"

"So," Tony drawled, "I guess we're not planning my funeral today, Probie." Tony gave Tim a little shake and towed him towards the door. "C'mon. Let's get my phone back and face the music. I have a Goth princess to soothe and a stupid bastard of a profiler to thank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for reading, and for commenting and leaving kudos. You are fantastic. A couple more chapters to go!


	24. Chapter 24

Abby had been easier than he expected. Once Tony maneuvered past her warp-speed talking, made her a hundred promises never to scare her like that again, and listened to all the ways she’d hunt down and kill Trent Kort – leaving no forensic evidence, of course – she settled into a tech-speak conference call with Penelope Garcia. Tony might regret ever introducing those two, but today it made him smile. And he was going to take that as a win.

Tony watched from the other side of the BAU conference room, the warmth in his gut from more than the cup of gourmet hot chocolate Agent Jareau had handed him. She’d smiled, sunny and sharp, and claimed it was a ‘welcome back to life’ gift. Tony snorted into his cup. Everyone on Aaron’s team was pretty damned smart. Yeah, Tony envied Aaron for that – so sue him.

McGee was still a little wide-eyed, sitting next to Garcia, leaning in close so the web cam could pick up his comments to Abby. Two formidable, beautiful, way-out-of-his-league Dark Queens. Tony shook his head. Timmy might not survive.

Abby had already set some things in motion on the NCIS side. That was no surprise. Her family was in trouble, and if Tony was considered the team's faithful St. Bernard, Abby was the high-strung-but-deadly pointy-collared Doberman just waiting for her opening. Tony had missed that. Over the past few months Abby had been too angry and scared to care about anyone but herself. She hadn’t liked the way her world – her family – had changed. And, even though it hadn’t been Tony’s fault, she’d sure acted like it was.

With Tim and Garcia and the entire BAU watching their interaction, Abby wasn’t about to bring it up. To talk about it. But Tony had gotten the message. He’d seen the sorrow in those dark eyes, the hesitant way she questioned him. No more of the angry ranting five-year-old who hadn’t gotten her way, no more ‘Trainee’ stickers, no more putting Tony in his place when he pretended to step into Gibbs’ shoes. She’d said it with a few gestures in ASL, a promise to bake his favorite scones, and a firm determination to do anything she could to help. But it was the way she’d talked about Gibbs that had said the most.

Aaron opened the door and leaned in. “Got a minute?”

Tony let himself be ushered out into the hallway.

“News about Kort?” Tony asked.

“No.” Aaron bent his head towards the conference room. “Garcia and Abby have more of a chance of tracing his movements at this point than either agency has of tracking him.”

“They’ll find him.” 

“You sound certain of that. More certain than I expected.”

Tony sighed. “Yeah. Considering the whole ‘kill me now’ attitude I had earlier, I’m a little surprised, too.”

Aaron’s scrutiny was something Tony had gotten used to. “I’m glad you talked to Agent McGee. And Abby. You seem less –"

"Less pissed?" Tony chuckled. "I may not be foaming at the mouth any more, but I'm still pissed, Aaron. Believe me."

"And you have every reason to be. No, I meant that you seem less likely to go out there and dare Kort to find you. To act out of a sense of bitterness and self-loathing rather than making a reasoned response to the crap that's happened to you." Aaron's voice vibrated with sincerity. "I don't want you to take a bullet – literally or figuratively - because you can't see how much it matters to people that you survive this."

"I get that." 

Aaron waited for more. When it was obvious Tony was finished, he shifted closer. "Not that I’m not grateful that you’ve changed your mind, I am. But, can you –"

"What, explain it?" Tony looked down into his half-empty cup. "I guess I finally heard what you were talking about back at the café." He twisted up one side of his mouth in an attempt at a smile. "Running has always been my go-to. This time was no different. But, you were right, Aaron. It hasn’t been good for me. And it sure as hell hasn't been good for some of the people I left behind." Nothing was settled; no one was forced to face the music. Those who should have had their behavior shouted to the world and then shoved back in their faces were never given the opportunity to make it right. To change. If Tony had handled it differently, well, there were only so many 'what ifs' that he could handle and stay sane.

Tony shrugged. "Maybe I was saving myself all those times, unwilling to take any more hits. And maybe that was okay." He stared into Aaron's determined glare. "But it's not okay this time. This time, I care too much about the people I'd have left. Even if they don't feel the same way about me, and –" he waved off Aaron's urge to argue with him, "- that's a discussion for another time. The point is, I care. I care about Abby and Ducky, about Jim Palmer. About McGee. About all the other agents and other teams that Shepard would be screwing. And, God help me, I even care about that bastard Gibbs. And whether it's asking for a transfer or resigning or," his smile still felt brittle, "telling you to blow up my car, I'd be running out on them. And I can't. Not now. Or, maybe I should say, not yet."

"If I didn't think you'd regret it, that you'd find a way to punish yourself for anything that might happen to your team if you left, I'd pay for the plane ticket myself." Aaron's expression softened, a little of the Super FBI Agent dropping away. "You understand that I wasn't just profiling you back in the café?" Aaron’s lips were pinched together.

"I get it." This time Tony’s smile was true. "It’s because you're my friend that the advice was able to slip in past the walls I've built up. The bulwarks that keep out the bullshit that plenty of administrative weenies and well-meaning counselors have thrown at me over the years. And that twinge in my gut is reminding me that those 'walls' sure failed me this time, with Shepard."

"The strongest walls can be breached from the inside."

Tony frowned into Aaron’s purposely blank face. "Is that a quote? Because it sounds like a movie quote. Seriously, Aaron? You’re quoting movies to me?"

"I don't know. I've tried everything else." That glimmer of amusement in Aaron’s eyes couldn't be disguised. "If you can’t beat 'em, join 'em."

"Yeah, well, just stop siccing Gideon on me. The guy's a genius, but I frankly cannot take another minute of his ultra-twisted-manipulative head shrinking." Tony's hand tightened around the Styrofoam cup, making it squeak. "And I'm guessing you didn't call me out here to take my emotional temperature, so what's up?"

"The IG has called a meeting at NCIS. I'll be headed over there with you and Agent McGee in a few minutes. But I think you should take another meeting, first."

Aaron's voice was pitched low, his earnest worry showing through the playful banter. Tony nodded. He knew this was coming. "Before I meet with the IG?"

"Before you find yourself in the same situation you were in this morning without having resolved anything."

Tony grunted. "So, before I see Gibbs."

"Yes."

Tony stared out through the bullpen without seeing it. Even without Kort or Benoit to deal with, regardless of bombs set in his car or deadly assassins waiting for him to stick his nose out of Quantico, nothing had really been resolved. Shepard was gone. Ziva had been invited to leave – which, hell, that was unexpected. But Gibbs had started all this. Gibbs' abrupt departure four months ago had blasted away the team's – Tony's – foundation and had given Shepard her opportunity. His return had started the avalanche, tipped that one rock an inch too far, and Tony was still trying to dig his way out of the pile-up.

"Why is it easier to take down Shepard, easier to comprehend an arms' dealer's hate and an off-the-rails CIA agent's bomb that it is to think about dealing with Gibbs?" It wasn’t an idle question; Tony would really love to hear an answer. He stared at Aaron. "It sounds a little bit crazy, doesn't it?"

"Not at all. Benoit and Kort – they're a part of your job. They are threats that might be more personal than most in your day-to-day investigations, but you've faced killers, terrorists, and corruption before. We've all developed our own ways of dealing with that kind of violence." Aaron nodded at the agents at their desks. "We have to. But when it comes to the team, the people you trust with your life, well," Aaron's eyes were solemn, "it's complicated."

"Like Elle."

"Like Elle. And Gideon. And sometimes we need help dealing with it."

"Yeah," Tony sighed.

Aaron pointed at his office. "So, here's my question. Are you ready? To talk about Gibbs? To get some help? Because, if you're not, you need to tell me to back off."

"Is that really an option?" Tony's eyebrows flicked up and down.

"Of course," Aaron answered. "For now."

"Huh." Echoing Tony's words back to him. Tony had to give him credit for that. He chugged back the last gulp of hot chocolate and squeezed the cup into a white ball. "If you think it will help, then I'm ready."

"Good." Aaron opened his office door and urged Tony inside with a hand on his back. "Because, frankly, I wasn't going to let you go back to NCIS until we talked about this."

Tony laughed, shaking his head. "I knew it."

The young man waiting behind Aaron's desk looked up from a thick, plain-covered file, long fingers darting in and out of pages on a yellow legal pad covered with notes. He stood. "Agent DiNozzo."

"And you must be the famous Doctor Spencer Reid. It is great to finally meet you." Tony tossed his cup in the trash can and reined in his urge to grab at Reid's hand.

"Ah, you, too." Reid didn't smile, but he seemed sincere. "Hotch has told us a lot about you."

"Likewise." Geez, Tony hadn't been this nervous meeting someone since his first date. And that was in sixth grade. "Ah, look –"

"I hope you don't –"

"Reid, why don't you tell Tony –"

"Okay, that's it." Tony clapped his hands together. "Spence – mind if I call you Spence? Good. You've got a photographic memory, right? So you don't need to refer to your notes for anything you're about to tell me."

"Um, it's eidetic, actually –"

"Potayto-potahto." He grinned. "And you, Mister Unit Chief, you have a couple of irons in the fire, a few balls in the air, cats to herd, et cetera, right?"

"Tony –"

"Soooo," Tony moved slowly around the desk to tug on the sleeve of Reid's too-large sweater, "why don't the two of us take a walk, take a drive, find a bottle of Jack and a couple of glasses, whatever, and get out of here? You can tell me all about my twisted psyche and Gibbs' paranoid personality disorder, and I can swallow down the truth without big brother, here," Tony jerked his chin towards Hotch, "watching me for my reactions."

"Wait, Tony, it's not safe –"

"C'mon, Aaron. Do you really think Kort has smuggled himself into Quantico to take me out?" Tony shared a wink with Reid. "Maybe he's wearing a fake goatee and dark glasses, that would fool the Marine guards, right? Hey!" Tony straightened, "this is a Marine Base! NCIS has got all kinds of connections here. How come I just thought of that?" 

"Probably because we narrow-mindedly tend to dismiss the huge Marine presence all around us and focus on the FBI and its training complex." Reid was moving with him, now. "And I know the quickest way to the best coffee on base."

"Of course you do," Aaron mumbled, following them out into the hall. "Tony, are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm absolutely sure that I don't want to have this discussion here. And, booze would definitely help, but I will put on my big boy pants and go with coffee. Or a Frappuccino." Tony swung his gaze back to Reid. "Do they have Frappuccinos?"

"I think they do." Spencer's smile was huge. "Those are great."

"They are, aren't they?" Tony pretend-punched Reid in the arm. "And we're big enough men to admit it." He waved over his shoulder as he and Reid moved quickly towards the doors. "See you later, mom. We'll be back in time for the big shindig, I promise."

Tony could feel Aaron staring daggers at him until the doors closed on the elevator. "Sorry," he began, taking in Reid's puzzled look. "If you'd rather go find an empty office or conference room, I'd get that. But –"

"No. Honestly, I think this is a good idea." Reid, hands in his pockets, scrunched up his shoulders. "Just because I've studied your file – and Agent Gibbs' – doesn't mean I should be considered some kind of lecturer offering an expert opinion."

"Hm," Tony grunted. "More like a visiting professor with an interesting case study."

Reid chuckled. He pointed to the blank wall, Vanna-White style. "'See the NCIS agent in the wild. Observe his strange mannerisms. His predatory behavior.'"

"'His odd coffee addiction,'" Tony added, snorting. "My attention tended to wander during those mandatory seminars. Someday remind me to tell you about the Sexual Harassment one."

"Oh! We had one of those!" Reid's hands danced in front of him. "I thought Garcia was going to explode."

"Abby did the same thing! Kept asking us for permission to hug."

"I'd like to meet her."

Tony smiled. "That is definitely something that I will make happen. Hey, come along to this little impromptu intervention at NCIS and I will guarantee it."

Reid tilted his head. "An intervention for whom?"

The elevator doors slid open on the first floor. "I'm hoping it's for Gibbs, but, with the way my day has been going, don't quote me."

Reid caught Tony by one elbow as he started down the hall towards anywhere. "This way."

"Oh, are we really getting Frappuccinos?" Tony had actually thought that was just a good excuse to get out of the BAU offices.

"No, but I thought you might want to visit your car." Smug. That's how Reid looked – smug. "I have a vintage 1962 Volvo."

Tony felt his jaw dropping. "My – you'd take me – my Mustang?"

Reid's laughter lit up the dingy FBI corridor. "Come on. I have it on good authority that the bomb has been safely removed and your car has been given a clean bill of health."

"Spencer Reid, I love you," Tony crowed, hurrying after the guy's long-legged stride.

Tony spent far too long going over his car, checking every inch of the exterior for scratches, crooning over the interior. He used the mechanic's creeper to check underneath, the FBI tech pointing out where and how the bomb had been attached. By the time he'd finished, Reid had found them two bottles of water and handed him a rag to wipe off his hands.

He leaned back against the nearest workbench, sweaty but happy. "Thanks, man. This," he poured a splash of cold water onto the cleanest part of the rag and wiped off his face, "this means a lot."

The left side of Reid's mouth lifted. "I'm not really a typical car guy."

Tony laughed. "No, really?"

"I mean, I have a great appreciation for classics, for history, for the stories behind technology, and, since I'm forced to use it, I like to be able to decide which models and types will fit in with my life instead of how my life will fit into technology." He fiddled with the cap of his water bottle. "Garcia is dragging me kicking and screaming into using my computer more effectively."

"Huh. You think you're behind with technology, I'd like to introduce you to my boss." Tony swallowed and shook his head. "Technophobe. Won't accept an emailed report, oh, no, everything has to be printed out, old school. Hey, what happened to that paperless office everyone was promising fifteen years ago?"

"Fifteen years ago I was eight years old."

Tony turned slowly to stare at the smirking agent beside him. "I hate you very much right now, Agent Reid."

Reid took a drink around his smile. "So, your boss doesn't like technology. Do you know why?"

"Because if it was invented after 1965 it's inherently evil?" Tony tried.

"What kind of weapon does he carry?"

Tony opened his mouth for another sarcastic remark and then stopped. "Oh." One thing Gibbs insisted on was the best, the most up-to-date hardware for the team. Vests. Handguns. Rifles. Cars. Surveillance equipment. "What the hell," he blurted out. "Why can't the man program a damned cell phone or use the on-line reporting software?"

"I'd guess because those two forms of technology have to do with communication." Reid hiked one hip onto the workbench. "From my observation, Agent Gibbs hates everything to do with communication, through technology or otherwise."

"You are not wrong about that."

"He hadn't told you about his family? About what happened to them?"

Reid had spoken quickly, in the exact same tone he'd used to laugh at his lack of 'car-guy' vibe. Tony answered without thinking. "Didn't tell anyone. Not even Ducky and he's known the man for decades." Tony didn't blame him. "That was his choice. I never faulted him for that." His jaw tightened. "It's not like we were friends, sharing our life stories."

"No, I'm sure you tried, you're a friendly guy, outgoing, you make friends easily. But Agent Gibbs didn't exactly reciprocate."

No shit, Tony thought. A few stakeouts, a couple of conversations, a cowboy steak in his fireplace once a year. He'd stayed with Gibbs for a few days while his apartment was being fumigated. That hadn't ended well. "Yeah, I've been accused of over-sharing."

"Me, too," Reid responded. "I hear that from Morgan and Hotch. Sometimes JJ. But they don't physically hit me. They don't threaten to shove a boot so far up my ass that I'll spit dirt. They don't expect me to be at their beck and call 24 hours a day, belittle my every contribution, and act like they don't remember why I'm on their team in the first place." He watched Tony closely. "Do you think they should? Is that the proper response? Should Hotch start smacking me around when I don't do things exactly the way he expects me to? Or maybe Morgan should get in my face and scream at me. Gideon has a sarcastic streak, he could be in charge of making fun of me, of telling everyone we meet at different police departments how useless I am, how I've never had a real date and couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with my weapon until last year. He could make sure everybody heard that my mother is a paranoid schizophrenic, that my father left when I was eight, and that I wet the bed until I was ten. Does that sound fair?"

They both knew the answer to Reid's questions, knew what Reid was doing. But that didn't make it hurt any less. Tony's gut clenched around the pool of cool water lying there, threatening to return it to sender. Reid had laid it out beautifully, putting himself in Tony's place. Now that Tony had met Aaron's team, he could picture it. Turn Aaron into a younger version of Gibbs, his expression hard, hand raised to keep Reid in line. Gideon's sarcasm would be like acid thrown in the young agent's face. He rubbed one hand across the back of his neck, remembering.

Gibbs telling Ziva about carrying a bucket of shit for his father on her very first case. Telling McGee that Tony's report-writing was worse than a rabid baboon with a crayon. He'd told them both that they didn't need to listen to Tony, that his orders were pointless, useless, and his position in the chain of command was to be ignored. The head smacks had become brutal, embarrassing, humiliating when Gibbs hauled off in the bullpen, but he'd taken to doing it in public when Kate joined the team, showing everyone – suspects, witnesses, victims, law enforcement - that Tony was to be treated as a child. Or a pet. Tony had lived through it, but picturing it happening to Reid threw Gibbs' actions up in clear images across Tony's mind.

"No. No, it's not fair at all," Tony admitted.

Reid grimaced. "But, I'm just a kid. Skinny. Out of shape. I'd be no match for Hotch or Morgan. I'm not an athlete, haven't been in law enforcement for years. You can take care of yourself, you're not a, what would you call me? A geek? A wuss? Helpless? It wouldn't be a fair fight at all –"

"Okay, okay. Stop." Tony tossed the empty bottle towards the trash can, not bothering to look to see if it fell inside. "Your horse is dead, stop beating it. I know that how Gibbs treats me is wrong. How he runs the team is wrong."

"Not just wrong," Reid said, his face set in determined lines, "it's not just against procedure. It's illegal. And he's been doing it for years. And you've been letting him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I apologize to guest readers who can no longer leave comments. I've attracted a stalker who reads and leaves comments on many chapters of my NCIS fics about how crap I am at writing and characterization and how I should never try to write professionally because, geez, I'm so bad at it. These comments, as much as I'd like to believe otherwise, really affect me and I'm not willing to give him/her any more opportunities to sling hate at me.
> 
> Second, this chapter is late uploading because I had to work through my doubts and blocks and get back to the story I wanted to tell. Thanks for your great, uplifting comments and patience. And thanks to those who have started any of my stories, realize it isn't for them, and choose to go read something they like instead of leaving nasty comments. You're doing it right.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your support ... and now on with the story. This chapter references the NCIS episode Bait, and Criminal Minds episodes LDSK and Derailed. Readers don't have to worry about knowing the ep backwards and forwards.

Tony wandered the FBI garage. Most of the mechanics had left for the day. The last few were crouched around a bomb robot, tinkering with the wiring. Tony stopped and stared for a minute, his mind flung back to that Quantico high school just down the road and Kody Meyers, the kid wearing the bomb. Gibbs had made himself a hostage, leaving Tony to make the second worst decision of his life: to choose life or death for a child.

He remembered Ziva's cold eyes, her taunting. Shepard's calls, poking and prodding him, unconvinced that Tony could handle the situation. Once Gibbs had walked into that classroom, all the weight had fallen on Tony's shoulders. Everyone looked to him for the order - shoot the child in the head or let the child live and end up killing more innocents. Two equally impossible choices.

Tony had been much younger when he'd been forced to make a decision like that for the first time. He'd been the kid that time, the only one who heard the screams and saw the smoke curling out of the second story window on that Baltimore night. He could still hear the fizz and crack of the wood as he pushed his way into the house, see the steam rising before the floor collapsed. He smelled the heat, the burning plastic, the embers searing his throat, his lungs, long before he opened a packet of white powder in the bullpen. He swallowed against the memories of the boy's screams as he struggled against the panicked strength in Tony's arms. Tony couldn’t save the kid's sister. There, in the dark Baltimore night, he'd decided who would live and who would die.

He woke up every day with that knowledge.

At the Quantico high school, he couldn’t do it again. He had to find a way to save the kid. To save them all. Nothing else was possible. He remembered thinking fleetingly about what Gibbs would do. With Ziva and Shepard hammering at him, and the FBI and bomb guys insisting on immediate action, Tony had tried to get inside Gibbs' head far enough to plan out his actions and decisions according to what his Boss would do. And then, shaking, unable to move, frozen with the expectations slamming into him from every side, Tony had thrown Gibbs' rulebook to the wind and done the job his way.

That hadn't been the way Gibbs had seen it, of course. After they'd figured it out, cut the puppet master's strings, and rescued the kids, Tony had been free to head to the bathroom to throw up. Gibbs had found him there.

Tony could still taste the sharp tang of bile in his throat when he thought about that discussion. Gibbs telling him he'd done the right thing. That Tony had 'followed his lead' and spun out the situation long enough for Gibbs to figure it out. Fed Gibbs the right intel to allow him inside the kid's head. Tony had stood there speechless, water running down his face from shoving his head under the faucet as he watched Gibbs walk away.

The funny thing was, Gibbs really believed it. He believed that saving Kody – and his classmates – had been all up to Gibbs. That the team, the bomb squad, the fibbies had been bit players handing Gibbs his opening. That, trapped inside the classroom with a kid with a bomb, teen hostages, and no knowledge of what was going on outside, Gibbs had still been in charge. Tony had only acted to prolong the hostage situation so that Gibbs could be the hero. 

The funnier thing was that Tony had half-believed him.

At the open double-wide garage door, Tony stopped and propped his shoulder against the track. The sun was low, yellow-orange beams cutting through the forest that enclosed Quantico on three sides. It seemed forever since he'd sat with Aaron on the steps at Arlington, felt the wind on his face, and looked out into the distance beyond the faithful dead. The drama of this morning seemed weeks behind him. Gibbs, NCIS, his promotion – they'd receded behind the need for immediate survival. But, in a few minutes, Tony was going to walk into NCIS and be faced with it – all of it. And he was not heading into that meeting without a plan of action, without making sure his own heart and mind and gut were settled on what Tony DiNozzo needed and wanted. And who he wanted it from.

"There was a hostage situation last year here in Quantico," Tony began, turning to lean his back against the metal side-rail. Reid stood more than an arm's length away, waiting. Tony was grateful that Reid had given him some space to think and move. To get his head straight. He was ready, now. Ready to finish this discussion. "A kid was manipulated by a drug cartel into wearing a bomb, threatening to blow up his classroom, his classmates."

"I remember reading about that."

"NCIS was called in. The kid – Kody Meyers - was the son of a Major. Most of the students had military families. Kody had walked into his home room, showed everyone his bomb, and threatened to detonate it if we didn't turn over his dead mother." Tony sighed and waved a hand in the air. "It's a long story, believe me. But, here's the thing. One of his hostages had asthma. Gibbs – well, things weren't moving as quickly as Gibbs liked, so he took the hostage's inhaler into the classroom himself, forcing Kody to take him hostage, too." The fear curdled Tony's gut as it had less than a year ago. Anger. Terror. Rage at Gibbs' uncommunicative, impatient, high-handed – Tony huffed. "Without a word, without a head's up or a discussion of tactics, Gibbs forced me into taking charge."

Reid frowned. "That's – an interesting leadership style."

"You have a way with understatement, Doc." Tony folded his arms. "I had exactly three seconds to be brutally fucking furious before I had to swallow it all and keep the sharpshooters from doing whatever the hell they wanted. And to keep Director Shepard from marching in there in her Jimmy Choo's to replace me."

Reid gave him a minute before responding. "From what I remember, everyone got out alive. Kody as well as the other kids."

"Yeah. And that should have felt damned good." Tony took a deep breath and let it out. "Should have felt like an accomplishment."

"I'm guessing that it didn't."

Tony smiled. "No. Maybe for a minute, a split-second when I knew Kody and Gibbs and the other kids were going to be able to walk away." He shrugged, shaking his head. "When that case was over I walked into the director's office to find out Kody's mom wasn't dead, she had been pulled into witness protection. Kody had been lied to. And it was those lies that had made him vulnerable to the people who had strapped that bomb onto a fifteen-year-old kid. If the director – the people that I work for, put my life on the line for - had been honest with us, with me, I wouldn't have almost given the order to shoot Kody Meyers in the head. To kill a fifteen-year-old."

Those were Tony's nightmares. Kody's brain matter splattered all over his classmates' desks. A little girl's screams from a burning house. "Everyone in this line of work has moments – seconds – to make decisions about who lives and who dies." Tony heard the bleak despair in his own voice. "Making those decisions requires trust. Belief that you have the truth, that the people around you are going to give you everything you need, every word, every theory, every scrap of intel they have so that the good guys ride off into the sunset with those white hats sitting firmly on their heads. So that children don't die." He lifted his head and caught Reid's eye. "Gibbs didn't do that when he shut himself up in that classroom. Shepard sure as hell didn't do it."

Reid's expression was carefully blank but Tony could see that he was processing the story, he could see it in Reid's eyes. 

"People make mistakes," Reid began. "But this, this lack of communication is a pattern."

"Yes, it is."

"And you're not sure if the removal of Director Shepard is going to be enough of a change for you to go forward at NCIS."

"Oh," Tony laughed, "I know it won't be. Shaking the tree hard enough for a few bad apples to fall is well and good, but without knowing how Gibbs will be involved, if he'll be put back in charge of the MCRT, if I'm going to be jammed back into the SFA role on his team – a role where he controls not just my responsibilities but the information pipeline itself –" Tony bit off the rest of his angry rant. "I thought I trusted Gibbs with my life. I thought I'd made a good decision to follow and support him. Now I'm not so sure."

Reid cocked his head to one side. "Tell me what happened after the Kody Meyers case. Did you confront the director, or Agent Gibbs? Did the director commend you, get your take on what went right and wrong in this situation?"

Tony's look must have been particularly clueless, because Reid raised his eyebrows and hurried on. "No? We usually have a conference with the deputy director concerning these kinds of cases. Especially if an agent's been compromised in any way." His shoulders sneaked up around his ears. "After the case where Hotch and I were taken hostage by Philip Dowd, we were interviewed separately and together to determine how to avoid that kind of situation in the future. It happened again after the case in Texas, with Elle and me."

Tony stayed silent, blinking slowly at the agent standing across from him.

"Are you telling me there was no after-action interview? No reprimand put into Agent Gibbs' file for his dangerous behavior? No discussion of future protocols?"

"Gibbs won an award. A commendation. He was toasted as a hero." Tony chuckled. "Director Shepard made a little 'I'm mad at you' face, but then proceeded to call a press conference to show how NCIS reunited a family and saved the day."

"Really?"

Tony nodded. "Yep." Tony made the final 'p' pop, like the sound of a gunshot.

Reid seemed to switch gears. "I noticed from his file that Gibbs has won a lot of awards. He is consistently named Agent of the Year at NCIS. Which is odd. The FBI is bigger, obviously, but the administration urges diversity and recognition of those who aren't necessarily in the limelight. Forensics. Research. Security. Men, women, different races and backgrounds. I'm surprised that Gibbs has been awarded so many honors so consistently."

Tony didn't know where Reid was going with this. He thought about the lockbox in the bottom drawer of his desk. The wealth of medals and honors lying there collecting dust. "It didn't happen as much under Morrow, but, still. And, believe me, it's not because the guy goes after them."

"Really."

Tony looked up at Reid's bitter tone. "No, really. He doesn't even attend the ceremonies. He makes me go instead. I pick up the awards for him and keep them in a lockbox in my desk along with his military honors."

Reid didn't exactly roll his eyes, but the disapproval was sketched into every angle of his body.

"What?" Tony demanded.

"Tony. You're a smart man. Look closer."

"Well, I'm not feeling particularly smart today, okay? Especially standing next to you." Tony gestured. "C'mon, give. And no more comparisons with your team, okay? I get that the MCRT is royally screwed up. I'm a big boy, just tell me."

"Fine." Reid crossed his thin arms across his waist. "There are a lot of technical terms I would use to describe Agent Gibbs in a formal report. Before I said a word, you mentioned Paranoid Personality Disorder. That is part of it. Clearly Agent Gibbs doesn't trust anyone, not his teammates, not anyone from any other agencies. He refuses to work with others on any kind of level footing. Some aspects of that disorder work well for him – he is hypervigilant of his surroundings and of possible threats. But there are other aspects that work against Gibbs ever being able to work in a healthy environment. He is reluctant to confide personal information about his life, worrying that it would be used against him. He is unforgiving and holds grudges. He does not take criticism well and reacts with violent aggression. He is cold and distant in his relationships. He is hostile, stubborn, and argumentative. Those are textbook symptoms."

Tony felt himself nodding along with Reid. None of that surprised him. Tony had a lot of those same traits himself, at least the hypervigilance, the inability to form long-lasting relationships, and the distrust.

"Before you begin to justify Gibbs' behavior because of your own faults, let's go a little deeper." Reid continued. "Narcissism is a factor here. Gibbs' world revolves around himself. He doesn't communicate with you because he feels he knows what he is doing and that's all that matters. And it's your responsibility," he pointed at Tony, "to figure it out."

Hell, Gibbs had said as much to Tony's face. Tony let Reid's words come, let them swirl through his memories, sorting and filtering Gibbs' words and actions into different boxes. "Okay. Okay," he muttered. "I see it. But what has that got to do with winning awards?"

"I'm getting there," Reid said. "We're talking about the fact that he doesn't give you all the facts. He guards knowledge and information like a dragon does its hoard. Because of his losses, Gibbs justifies this as 'protecting himself.'"

Tony took one look at Reid's determined face and swallowed all the objections that were trying to crawl up his throat. 

"Let me ask you this," Reid began again, "what happens when you go to the award ceremonies for Gibbs?"

"What do you mean?" Tony frowned.

"When the director hands out the award and Gibbs isn't there, what happens?"

"I go up, take it, say a few words on his behalf –"

"You talk about how much Gibbs deserved it, right?"

"Well, sure. And how much he appreciates it."

"Even though you believe he doesn't."

Tony made a face. "It's the right thing to say."

"Tony." Reid's eyes were wide. He'd moved forward a step, his hands out as if he could grab Tony and shake some insights into him. "Let's talk about the hostage case. Kody Meyers. Gibbs won an award for that. A case you solved. A case you were in charge of. And he sent you to collect his award."

"Yeah, but –"

"He sets you up." Reid was nearly shouting. "He makes you attend a ceremony where you are marginalized, ignored, your contributions are set aside in favor of his. He demands that you go and put yourself in front of all the other agents and sing his praises. He makes you say he deserved it and you do - he knows you honestly think he deserves it. Gibbs manipulates you into standing there, holding his award, saying great things about him, when the award should be going to you. He is rubbing your nose in the fact that Gibbs is first and all you can hope to be is second place."

"No. That's not –" Tony stopped, frustrated. "He doesn't want to be the center of attention."

"If he didn't want attention drawn to him and his accomplishments, he would go to the ceremony, accept the award, and sit back down. His rude, narcissistic behavior only draws more attention to him, not less." Reid was practically vibrating with earnestness, the pitch of his voice rising. "In fact, he could easily tell his administration that he was permanently removing himself from the running for these awards. Hotch did that last year. Since the directors don't like looking like idiots waiting for the agent to show up and take the award, they are happy to do it."

"And then," Reid hurried on, "then he tells you the award means nothing – an award you, deep-down, want to win. He makes you believe your feelings are wrong, warped, egotistical. No one should want those awards. And so, you keep them in a lockbox in your desk. They sit there, beside you, where they are a constant reminder that Gibbs is better. Better at his job and a better man for shunning such glory. They scream out that Gibbs is more qualified and more experienced, with honors given him by a grateful country. Honors he is too noble to accept." Reid made an apologetic grimace. "Honors you'd love to get your grubby little hands on."

"Stop. Just, stop." Tony's heart was beating fast. Reid wasn't right. He couldn't be. Tony couldn't be that blind, that screwed up. That easily manipulated.

"One more thing and then I'll stop. I promise." Reid lowered his voice, carefully evening out his words, stilling his racing insights. "I know you're feeling vulnerable right now. And I know my words can only do so much. But if I can help you see Gibbs more clearly, to weigh his behavior and words in a different way before you come face to face with him again, I want to. I want to help."

Tony's laughter was a little manic, a little too loud and a lot too bitter. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "And I know you do. I really do. But, hell," he opened his eyes to consider the anxious man in front of him, "if I find out much more of this is my fault, I'm going to –"

"No." Reid lurched forward, unbalanced, as if he wanted to hold onto Tony, but he drew back before making contact. "No. I am not saying that it is your fault." Anger and determination turned his voice into a hiss. "I'm not. Please, understand that."

"Okay." Tony tried to wrangle his inner self, but the guy inside was mad, panicked, wanted to shout out arguments, to give Reid another side to Gibbs' story. "I'm kinda –" he shook his head, trying to get the thoughts to settle down into clarity. "This is –"

"This is completely the opposite of how you've always thought. I know," Reid interrupted. "Let's try something else. What if I tell you about Gibbs, about his inner thoughts. Give you reasons you should trust him in his own words."

Still caught wrong-footed, Tony sighed. "You're going to channel Abby, then? Or Ziva? Because all I've been hearing for the past four months is how Gibbs knew what he was doing. How he's the best and I'm not to judge."

"And you didn't like it."

"I might not have liked it, but I got it." Tony flung out his arms. "Hey, I'm not Gibbs. I'll be the first to admit it."

That same blank expression fell across Reid's animated features like a curtain. A mask. Tony clenched his teeth and held on for the ride.

"Gibbs suffered a terrible loss. While he was serving his country, a loyal and dedicated Marine, placing himself in danger on a daily basis, his wife and daughter were murdered. Killed because his wife had followed his example and had done the right thing. And Gibbs wasn't there to help them, to protect them. You have no idea how that broke him, stole his very soul. Shannon and Kelly were his soul, you know. They had softened a hard-edged, angry young man into a husband and father. Smoothed his rough edges. Made him smile and laugh and engage in life. You have no idea what it felt like to have that torn away. To be left empty and alone. Unable to do anything about it."

Tony closed his eyes. "I can't imagine." He'd tried to picture that young father returning from war to an empty house, to his daughter's toys and his wife's memories, covered with dust. To twin graves instead of the loving hugs and warmth of his family.

Reid nodded. "No one else has ever lost as much as Gibbs. No one. Of course he built up walls around his heart. Once he'd survived that he was never going to put himself through it again. Of course he kept everyone more than an arm's length away. Of course he guarded his past – those memories are all he has left of Shannon and Kelly. If he chooses to live there, back in his memories, as he works alone in his basement, no one has the right to judge him for it."

Tony narrowed his eyes. "Yeah. I get the boat in the basement, the bourbon. But, okay, this was a tragedy of epic proportions, but to say that 'no one has ever lost as much as Gibbs.' That might be what it felt like for him, but it's a bit of an overstatement."

"You have no right to say that." Reid sounded angry. "You didn't try to put your life back together after you'd lost everything. Gibbs did that. He put one foot in front of the other, joined NCIS, and dedicated his life to put criminals like the one who killed his family behind bars. He gets up every morning. He gets dressed. He comes to work on time and ready to go. He doesn't take sick days or vacations. He doesn't fool around and you shouldn't either. God, Tony," Reid barked, "you, you who were born with a silver spoon in your mouth, who never wanted for anything, who got everything in life handed to you have no room to talk. Were you in the military? Did you see death face to face every day? No. So you sure as hell shouldn't dare to be less than one hundred percent in your job. No sick days. No vacations. No nights out with your frat buddies, what are you still fifteen?"

"Hang on," Tony smiled, showing his teeth, "you have no idea what my life was like."

"No, I don't, because it is so far removed from anything that Gibbs experienced. And those stupid little things you've shared, poor Tony was left at a swanky hotel in Hawaii for a couple of days. He had to carry a bucket of poop. I'm so, so sorry for your terrible circumstances." The sarcasm was sharp and cutting. "No wonder Gibbs makes fun of you, tells everyone about your drunk mother and the father who abandoned you. Who had nothing to do with you after age twelve. Well, boo-hoo. It's laughable for you to complain when it was Gibbs who lost everything."

Anger sparked in Tony's gut. "Those were confidential. I shared that crap with Gibbs because I thought we were friends, that he'd get it."

"Get it?" Reid laughed. "Jethro Gibbs was trying to keep himself alive in Iraq while you were paid to play a child's game in Ohio."

Tony wrangled his inner self, the pissed-off guy deep inside who wanted to shout. One some level, he knew what Reid was doing, but, damn, he was good at it. Tony was about ready to punch him in the nose.

"Gibbs can act however he wants. He's lost everything – everything," Reid seethed. "And if that means he's a little tough, a little paranoid, that he makes sure he gets his own way it's because he knows what happens when he doesn't. People die. He might be cold and distant and manipulative, but that's because his heart was cut out by a criminal and he'll never be the same." Reid was breathing hard, the blank mask gone, intensity making the tendons in his neck stand out. "Don't you dare think of judging him for it."

The words were familiar. They were Abby's words. They'd become Tony's own words, the phrases he'd said to himself for the past four months to justify Gibbs' actions. He'd excused Gibbs' behavior for years based on the man's Marine experience, his years of duty. But, finding out about his family – Reid was right. How could Tony judge him?

The thing was, he did.

"Other people have had tragedies in their lives." Tony lifted his chin. "We see it every day in our job. Family members murdered. Young women raped, sold into sexual slavery. Abuse and neglect of children. The world is full of sad stories. Of people who are sick or grieving. They never get over it, not really, but a lot of people have managed to move beyond it. To move beyond their grief and anger and feel again. To feel compassion for others. They don't use their tragedies as blunt instruments to beat others away."

"I could argue that those people are exceptional," Reid began, the false anger behind his eyes draining away.

"They might be," Tony agreed solemnly. "But most people are, eventually, able to look beyond themselves and have empathy for others who also grieve. It might take years, but they slowly emerge from the thick shield they've built around themselves and realize that the world is filled with grief and you can't really weigh someone else's hurt with yours to find out which one wins. Which one is allowed to be a bastard." Tony closed his eyes; the truth was exhausting.

"Can't Gibbs channel these feelings of empathy into some aspects of his work?"

Tony's lips ticked up in a half-smile. "He cares for children. For women. But, at the same time, he treats others – especially other men – as if they have no right to feel sad or sick or hurt simply because he has borne more than they could imagine and come through it. I," Tony pointed to his own chest, "have no right to be anything but fine, working seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day because Gibbs manages it, and he has weathered a tragedy that is worse than anything anyone else could possibly endure."

"Maybe it will take more time for Gibbs to recover. Shouldn't we allow that?" Reid was frowning, earnest, watching Tony carefully for cues to his thinking.

"It's been fifteen years," Tony whispered. "Fifteen years."

Reid didn't make the obvious come-back. Somehow, he knew that Tony would fill it in himself.

"No, there's no time limit on grief. Gibbs will be grieving for his girls forever. But that doesn't mean he gets a free pass to be a jerk because of it."

Tony turned away, squinting into the lowering sun. Somewhere deep down a part of him was still shouting about Gibbs' good qualities, how he'd given a disheartened cop from Baltimore a chance, told him he was good, an asset. The way Gibbs stood tall, head and shoulders above others. The truths Reid had already shared had turned the low-burning doubts in Tony's gut into roaring flames. They'd burned away some of the shine Tony had plastered across Gibbs' persona and left behind a truer image. The image of a man. A manipulative, bastard. Someone who justified his behavior because of his losses. Who, at the very center, judged Tony as beneath him, someone to manipulate and twist into a tool that fit his hand. 

Gibbs' boat came into focus in Tony's mind's eye, the dim basement filled with sawdust and the scent of cheap bourbon. The empty house had been abandoned above him - the memories of a child's laughter and a woman's touch too bitter for him to stay among them for long. The hand tools Gibbs insisted on using were racked around the boat's bones. Each one became a face, a person. Shepard. Pacci. McGee. Stan Burley. Tony. The tools fit into Gibbs' hand, were sharpened and oiled to do their jobs and then put back on the shelf. Gibbs trusted his tools to do their jobs, but they certainly didn't talk back to him, didn't kick out from his grasp. Any power they had came from Gibbs' hand, his muscles, his intentions. Without Gibbs they laid there, inert, dead. Gibbs only trusted them as long as they stayed quiescent under his manipulating hand.

Tony had been foolish to believe otherwise.


	26. Chapter 26

"I'm sorry, sir," the Navy guard handed back Gibbs' driver's license and stepped back from the truck window, "you are not on the security list. I'm going to have to ask you to reverse your vehicle and exit the yard."

"Then how come I drove in here without a problem this morning?" Gibbs was seething, eyes narrowed, gut screaming at him to take this glorified security guard down a peg. "What, did they issue a revised list since 0700? Do you know who I am, son?"

"You might want to tone down that attitude, sir," the guard's smile was not amused. His hands were loose and relaxed around the weapon he held to his chest, and his balanced stance and assessing gaze identified him as a veteran. A man who knew what he was doing.

Gibbs glanced at the man's uniform. Blue camo. TAC vest. Helmet. This wasn't the usual security patrol he'd met at the Navy Yard gate for over a decade. Gibbs frowned. Had there been extra security this morning? He didn't think so. His name had been on the list. He'd been waved through without a second glance. Something had changed. Gibbs' gut rolled and churned. 

He glanced across at the half-dozen men at the checkpoint. They worked in unconscious synch with each other, two standing back while the third approached each vehicle. There were no rank insignia on the uniforms, but Gibbs knew a leader when he saw one – and a well-trained unit. He stared into the guard's eyes. "Master Chief," he murmured. The guard dipped his head in acknowledgement. This man was a real soldier, he'd been boots on the ground in a frontline zone. Gibbs didn't need to see a chest full of fruit salad to recognize the look. With a deep breath, Gibbs checked himself. "Seal?" Gibbs asked. "What unit?"

"Please reverse your vehicle, Mister Gibbs, and exit through the far lane." The Master Chief held his ground, chin high, his voice authoritative but calm.

"How long you been on post, Master Chief?" 

"Sir –"

"Master Chief!"

Another seasoned sailor approached Gibbs' truck and snapped to attention. "Mister Gibbs' status has changed, Master Chief. Orders just came through to escort him into the lobby. The detail will be met there with further orders."

Gibbs gave the Master Chief credit. He didn't sigh, didn't frown, didn't show his frustration in any way. Gibbs sure the hell would have. 

"Understood." The Seal waved the sailor off. "Petty Officer Ferretti will lead you in, Mister Gibbs. Please follow him. If you diverge from his lead, I will have you detained. Is that clear?"

Gibbs shoved the gearshift into drive. "I know my way –"

"I asked if that was clear, sir."

Two other sailors were eyeing him. Weapons ready. "Clear," Gibbs barked, mashing down on the brake and clutch almost hard enough to push them through the floor.

The Master Chief pointed to a white sedan plastered with Navy emblems that was already pulling up in front of Gibbs' truck. He raised his left fist into the air and pumped it, giving the order to move out. Gibbs felt the man's eyes on him as he followed the lead car at a snail's pace through the checkpoint and into the parking lot. 

The car led him to a visitor's space. A visitor's space, damn it. He'd wanted to park in the garage, go in through the lab, check in with Abby and Ducky before he showed his face in the bullpen. He wanted to be prepared. Gibbs ground his teeth and parked. The young sailor was at his elbow as soon as he got out of the truck.

"This way, sir."

Gibbs bit back the angry retort that was on the tip of his tongue. If Abby was right, a lot of crap had gone down today. But this? This level of security meant there was a whole lot more than even she could find out. This was Threat Level Red security. That meant more than chatter – it meant an identifiable threat to the military on the yard or personnel within NCIS. 

Gibbs didn't hurry ahead, he didn't try to outdistance the petty officer walking at his elbow. Those kinds of games of one-upmanship had to be discarded. For now. Once he got some answers, once the current threat had been neutralized, then Gibbs would see. For right now he needed intel. Information. He needed someone he could trust to give him the details about Shepard and Ziva, DiNozzo and McGee. And as soon as the doors to the lobby opened, Gibbs spied exactly who he was looking for.

"What the hell is going on, Fornell?"

"And a lovely good afternoon to you, too, Gibbs." Hands in his pockets, Fornell nodded at the metal detector. "Get a move on, I don't want to miss anything upstairs."

Gibbs put his foot up on the belt and raised his pant-leg, showing his personal weapon to the two guards watching him. He'd be damned if he was going to walk around unarmed no matter what his status at NCIS ended up being. The senior officer manning the security desk nodded at him, his own hand on his sidearm, and Gibbs removed the weapon carefully and placed it in the proper bin. Keys, wallet, phone, they all went into another.

"You have a permit for concealed carry, sir?"

"In my wallet," Gibbs answered. He might not like it, but he knew the procedure for civilians entering NCIS. And it was being made crystal clear to Gibbs that he was a civilian.

On the other side of the metal detector, the second guard was checking Gibbs' permit. The clear, twisted wire leading from the back of his uniform to his ear told Gibbs that someone was giving him his marching orders. Gibbs' fists clenched at his sides. These delays were destroying every promise he'd made to himself about his attitude. He knew he should have been ready for it, ready to have his reinstatement questioned. He'd listened when Ducky had advised him to rein in his temper, when Abby scolded him. But Gibbs couldn't learn patience in a couple of hours over tea and crumpets. 

He had no intention of being stopped in the damned lobby. Or having his hand held while he was 'escorted' through the building. Not even by Fornell. 

"Why don't you tell whoever is on the other end of that earwig that Gibbs is here for some answers. The Director of this agency requested my presence here."

The guard paused, listening, his gaze locked with Gibbs'. "Sir, I've been informed that the interim director of NCIS would like to see you. You are authorized to carry your weapon. But I'm also instructed to remind you that you have no standing here. You are to be escorted at all times. If you are found unescorted you will be detained under the Patriot Act as we are currently under emergency lockdown." He nodded at Fornell. "Agent Fornell will take you to Conference Room 2."

Emergency lockdown. Gibbs assessed the lobby, his glance flicking back and forth between the two men in full gear stationed outside the doors, two more stationed by the elevator and stairs, and the two officers manning the security booth. He straightened, his heartbeat speeding. Emergency lockdown meant a credible, verifiable threat had been made. Evidence of terrorism had been found. This was more than Shepard getting into a pissing contest with HR. More than Gibbs hurting DiNozzo and McGee's feelings. This had to be about the bomb threat Abby was talking about. He grunted, frustrated, out of the loop and three damned steps behind.

"Take your weapon, Jethro."

Fornell had eased to his side while Gibbs' mind tried to put the pieces together. Gibbs took his weapon from the guard's hand, securing it to his ankle holster. He grabbed his other items and hurriedly stowed them away as the two headed for the elevator.

Inside, Fornell pushed the button for the fourth floor. As soon as the car started ascending, Gibbs reached out for the stop button. Fornell grabbed his wrist in a brutal grip. 

"What the hell part of emergency lockdown do you not understand?" Fornell stepped into Gibbs' space and shoved him backwards. "Do us all a favor, Gibbs, and stop acting like you rule the world around here. In case you missed it, your name – your fame – means less than nothing right now. How about getting that through your head?"

Gibbs grabbed Fornell's lapels and shoved back. "What do you have to be mad about, Tobias? You wanted me back. You called me back here, same as Shepard."

Fornell wrapped his hands around Gibbs' wrists and held on. "I didn't call you back here so you could go on some ego-trip and force your way back in charge of the MCRT. That might have been Shepard's agenda, but you'll find no one around here gives two shits about what she wanted. In fact, that makes it look like the two of you were in collusion. And, believe me, you do not want anyone to think about that possibility." He threw Gibbs back a step and then adjusted his coat. "So, get your head on straight, Jethro, before the people in that conference room knock it off."

"A friendly heads-up would have been nice." Gibbs rubbed at his wrists. "I'm walking in here blind, Tobias."

"You've been blind for years, Gibbs." Fornell let out a frustrated breath. "You're a great investigator, but once Shepard stepped into that office upstairs, you couldn't get far enough past your gonads to see that she wasn't right." He glanced towards Gibbs. "I don't have time to go into it, but, for the love of God, listen to what they're saying in there. Don't pretend you have any answers, because we both know you don't."

"I know that," Gibbs seethed. "I've been told."

"Good," Fornell interrupted. 

The elevator dinged and Gibbs eyed the doors that were about to open on a shitstorm. "I need to know –"

"Your 'need to know' stopped when you left NCIS in a huff four months ago."

Gibbs trailed after Fornell, lips clamped over all the arguments and demands he wanted to voice. The conference room was on the upper level, down the hall from Jen's – from the director's office. Fornell stopped at a desk outside. 

"Ma'am." Fornell nodded to the woman just rising from her chair with a wad of papers in her hands.

"Agent Fornell." The fifty-something woman eyed Gibbs. "Mister Gibbs. I have some documents that require your signature."

"What the hell?" Why were they wasting his time with paperwork? He gestured sharply to Fornell to open the door, but the FBI agent sighed and crossed his arms.

"Sign the damned forms."

Face screwed up in disbelief, Gibbs stepped in, towering over the woman. And then was forced to take a step back when she shoved the paperwork into his chest.

"Before you shoot yourself in the ass – again – I should let you know that you will not be entering that conference room unless you sign these nondisclosure forms and the affidavits attached concerning Mossad Agent David's exposure to classified materials. On the order of the Acting Director of NCIS." She let go of the forms and held out a pen.

"It's your choice, Gibbs," Fornell added when Gibbs leveled a glare in his direction. "Sign the forms Mrs. Adams just gave you or leave. Go back to Mexico." Fornell shrugged. "I promise never to ask for your help again."

"You're Adams?" Gibbs had heard that name before. Abby mentioned it. Ducky was going to talk to the woman. An HR admin. She'd called Gibbs earlier, in the bullpen.

"I am Janet Adams, yes. An 'admin drone' I believe is how you usually refer to me." She threw her hand out towards the desk chair. "Sit. Read. Sign the damned forms. Or don't."

"Why are you pissed at me?" Gibbs demanded. "What the hell did I do to you?"

Adams seemed to scrape up some self-control. "Frankly, Mister Gibbs, you have done nothing to me personally. But the atmosphere you created – especially in your MCRT – is responsible for quite a bit of what has gone wrong here. I apologize if I've been less than professional, but you've hurt some people who are friends of mine. You've put them in difficult positions. You didn't ask the right questions and were more interested in getting your own way than in following procedure or obeying the law." The woman placed the pen down on the desk and stepped out of the way. "I may not have any right to be 'pissed' at you, but neither do I have any respect for a man who puts himself above his team, this agency, or his duty of care."

Only his pride kept Gibbs from hanging his head. It was like Gibbs was a boy again and his mother told him he'd disappointed her.

"Damn. She's good." Fornell straightened from his slouch against the wall, watching Adams' retreating figure until the conference room door closed behind her. "So, what's it going to be? Do you want in on this, Jethro? Or is it time for a coffee run?"

Gibbs slammed the paperwork down on the desk and dug his reading glasses out of his pocket. Straddling the chair, he glanced up at Fornell. "Shut up and let me do this."

NCIS CM NCIS CM NCIS CM

The ride back to NCIS had been quiet. Tony tried to focus on the landscape out the window of the SUV, the bumper-to-bumper gridlock over on the other side of the median, the desperate commuters easing in and out of different lanes trying to find the magic one that cleared out in front of them to put them ahead of the chase. Northbound was only about half as bad. Tony appreciated Aaron's driving – he kept to the middle left, took slow-downs with patience, and knew how to deter people cutting him off without horns blaring and random jerks of the wheel. The exact opposite of Gibbs. 

Tony closed his eyes and rested his head against the glass. They should put a warning on the BAU – a sticker of some kind in the elevator next to the 6th floor button. Something like, "Warning. Exposure to the BAU may result in overanalyzing everything in your life."

Tony had always thought of himself as a guy who rolled with the punches. Flexible. Adaptable to nearly every situation. He'd fit in with jocks, nerds, frat boys, lawyers, and musicians. He'd gotten along well in police forces, government agencies, and with the military. It gave him his skills at working undercover, at putting on a false persona and diving smoothly into someone else's world without a ripple. Today, for the first time, he'd begun to see that flexibility not as an asset, but as a liability. Sometime this morning Tony had stopped caring about bending himself around other people's expectations and started thinking about his own needs. Seeing Gibbs sitting at his desk might have been the catalyst, but Aaron and his team had a lot to do with it, too.

Eyes slits, Tony glanced around the cab of the SUV. He'd given up shotgun to Reid, not out of deference, but because he wanted the illusion of privacy in having the backseat all to himself. The other two were quiet, allowing Tony his space. After all the home truths he had to swallow today, he needed it. His stomach rumbled and he patted it. Poor thing. Even his cast-iron gut was feeling the pain.

McGee had stayed behind to continue the search for Kort with Penelope. He and Tony had a few seconds together – enough for Tim to grasp Tony's hand and tell him that whatever happened at NCIS, Tim would have his back. It had felt good; sincere. Tony hadn't seen that side of Tim in a long time. He sure hoped the grown-up, professional persona didn't dissolve back into the back-biting jerk Tim had been at the first hint of stress. As Tim had waited for the parking garage elevator to head back up to the BAU bullpen, Tony watched him. Today had changed Tony. Maybe he should allow that it had changed Tim, too.

Morgan had come to stand at Tony's side. "He's a good man."

"Sometimes," Tony had replied.

Morgan had grunted in agreement. "Better keep him honest, then."

Tony had met the agent's gaze. "You think your beautiful tech-goddess can give me a hand with that?"

"You know it." Morgan held out his fist and Tony bumped it with his. "You ready for this, Tony?"

"I guess we're going to find out."

Morgan had joined Gideon in the second big black government issued monstrosity – real men didn't sit three in the backseat, after all.

When they hit the beltway and crossed over into DC, Tony straightened his tie and fastened down his game face. "Any idea who's going to be at this meeting?"

Aaron glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "The Inspector General, Secretary Davenport, Director of National Intelligence Hayden, Mueller from the FBI, someone from Homeland, don't know the name, and a representative from the SecDef have already had their meeting. They've already appointed an Interim Director for NCIS. We'll be meeting with him and General Hayden, and another FBI representative to discuss the Kort situation."

"This 'interim' guy. You know who it is?" Tony twisted, trying to stretch the tension out of his neck.

"I only know that it is not Assistant Director Vance. He is on his way from the west coast, but he won't arrive for hours." Aaron's eyes sparkled. "I thought you'd like to know that."

"Well thank God for small favors." Tony and that toothpick chomping asshole had hated each other from day one. Vance was all about 21st century agents working out cases with ones and zeros on some keyboard and had little patience for guys like Tony who liked to get their hands dirty. He frowned, a few pieces of intel he'd picked up about Vance slamming together like an out-of-control jigsaw puzzle. "Wasn't there something about Vance and Eli David? Weren't they friends or something?"

"Apparently that's one reason Vance won't be getting the job." Reid turned around to peer at Tony. "Especially now."

"There can't be any trace of Shepard's tie-in with Mossad left lingering around the agency," Aaron added.

"Even better," Tony sighed.

"Davenport might be on his way out, but he's holding onto his position as Secretary of the Navy with both hands. I'm sure he agreed with every recommendation from the IG and SecDef. He won't be rocking the boat or calling attention to himself for quite a while."

Politicians. Davenport hadn't been military or law enforcement when he got tapped for the job. He and Shepard had been so far into each other's pockets neither could see daylight. Tony rubbed one hand across his forehead. "So, I'm meeting with them why, exactly? I mean, this is a heady group. What the hell could an SFA – even a Team Lead – add to their behind-the-scenes puppeteering?"

Aaron slid the car into the right lane, signaling to merge onto South Capitol. "As much as you don't want to think about it, it was you that broke Shepard's deceit wide open. You're at the center of this, Tony."

"They just want me to go over it again, huh?" He swallowed, looking out the window at the familiar setting. A couple more turns and they'd be there, the Navy Yard, NCIS. Tony's home. For six years. Felt like forever. He touched the badge hanging on his belt, running one finger over the raised design. Maybe not for much longer.

"Maybe," Reid replied. "But I don't think so."

"I agree." Aaron took the left onto M Street. "I want you to be ready, Tony."

"Ready for what," he murmured as the buildings slipped past.

The SUV came to a halt at the Navy Yard checkpoint behind a small sedan. Aaron turned around in his seat and met Tony's worried gaze. "Ready to walk in there, to face these people, to face Gibbs. Ready to change the pattern you've been used to for six years. To stand up for yourself. To demand what you need for once."

"What if I don't know what that is?"

"Then that's something you should figure out."

"You have no idea of the agenda here? Of what they're going to say?"

Aaron's determined gaze promised his support and friendship. "I would tell you if I did."

"Yeah, yeah." Tony waved a hand in the air. He knew that. "You think Gibbs is going to be there."

"I'd bet on it," was Aaron's growled response.

"Okay." Tony slapped his hands on his thighs. "Curtain up. Let's get this show on the road."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the end right now! Hope to post everything by tomorrow night. Thank you for your comments and kudos!


	27. Chapter 27

Aaron had been partly right. When Tony and the BAU had been passed through security and were escorted up to Conference Room 2, the large space was nearly deserted. A few people sat around the farthest table from the door beside the window. The large central table held only discarded coffee cups and water bottles, its chairs all askew. The larger meeting had broken up, important men and women heading off to do damage control and spin the outcome, no doubt. How much time could Tony reasonably expect those higher-ups to spend on a little agency like NCIS? On a situation one lowly very ordinary agent was able to expose. Even Jenny Shepard and her underhanded manipulation couldn't stand up to schmoozing and golf games and putting this ugly mess behind them.

On Tony's left, three men stood in front of the white board, heads together. General Hayden and Secretary Davenport were listening to Peter Davis, the IG. Davenport was clearly the target of whatever Davis was insisting on – the usually suave politician looked rough around the edges, sweat darkening the starched collar of his shirt. Shepard had been his darling. If Tony was a betting man, he'd put money on Davenport resigning his position within the next few days – as soon as a likely successor could be found.

Even without the uniform, Hayden looked like a general; calm and in control. Of course. The head of the nation's national intelligence community must be a stone-cold bastard. Tony kept his face straight while he smiled to himself. With Tony's experience, he could spot one a mile away.

It was the man who greeted Tony at the door with a sincere smile and an outthrust hand that surprised him.

"Director Morrow?"

"Yes and no," Morrow chuckled. "The SecDef has detailed me to take the job on an interim basis until they choose Shepard's successor."

Tony was nearly dizzy with relief. "That – that's great. I'm glad someone had the foresight to bring you in. You were missed, Director. NCIS is lucky to have you back – even if it's for a short time." Morrow had been the kind of director every agent wanted to work for, to do his best for. They wanted to make the man proud. He'd had a light hand with his teams, but no one ever wondered if Morrow had their backs. 

"I appreciate the confidence, Tony." Morrow turned to greet Aaron and his team. "Gentlemen. The SecDef wanted me to relay his gratitude for your support in this situation. He'll be filing commendations for you and your team with Assistant Director Strauss."

"That's not necessary –" Aaron began.

"And," Morrow continued, "he'll be making it very clear that you and Unit 4 have his full support, Agent Hotchner. Personally and professionally."

Aaron nodded, carefully assessing. "That is greatly appreciated, Director."

Tony watched his friend. Yeah, there it was. Some of the weight that had been straining those broad shoulders had been lifted. Morrow was turning into a win-win for everyone.

Morrow glanced over at the seated figures. "Agent Hotchner, why don't you take your team over there." He latched onto Tony's elbow. "I'm going to introduce Tony to a few people and then we'll get down to business."

Tony glanced over towards the table by the window. The people seated there were keeping strangely still, the shadows at their backs from the darkening sky seeming to curl around their figures to hold them in place. Janet Adams sat at one end of the table, a few thin files in front of her. She met Tony's gaze and lifted her chin. Her unspoken encouragement warmed Tony's soul. 'Thanks, Mom,' he thought. Near the other end Fornell had his elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, the usual air of amusement he carried with him replaced by a radiating tension. On his left, Ducky toyed with a paper cup, frowning disappointedly at its contents. Tony couldn't help a smile. Someone had probably handed the man a barely warm cup of Lipton's. 

He let his gaze slide back towards the figure sitting on Fornell's right. Gibbs. His appearance was a shock Tony felt in his gut. Long hair. Mustache. Tony had just seen him this morning, last week when they were working on Fornell's case. But, deep inside, Tony could only think of his boss as a high-and-tight, clean-shaven ex-military badass, the confident bastard who had been the anchor Tony had latched onto on a Baltimore side street. This time Tony made himself look. Made himself see the Gibbs sitting between Fornell and Janet Adams. He looked old. Tired. Worn. Pissed. Well, that was nothing new. This time, though, the simmering anger beneath the surface was different. Tony didn't think Gibbs was on the edge of exploding, of venting his frustration out into the people around him. This anger seemed to be like the polos and white t-shirts. A uniform.

Morrow's grip on his elbow tightened. "Sorry. We'll get to them, but let's get this over with."

Tony let the Director steer him towards the group at the white board. As Aaron passed him going the other direction, Tony leaned in. "Make Gideon play nice."

Aaron made sure to brush their shoulders together. "No promises."

Davis saw them coming and broke off his discussion. "General Hayden, this is Agent Anthony DiNozzo. I think you've met, Davenport."

Tony managed to not wince from Davis's putdown of the Secretary of the Navy. He took Hayden's hand and met the man's strong grip and curious gaze with his own. "Sir."

"Agent DiNozzo." The Intelligence Director's expression seemed open and honest. "You've pulled back the curtain on some troubling behavior."

"It's been a confusing few months, sir." Tony didn't have the energy to keep explaining himself.

"Knowing who to trust in our business is never easy," Hayden replied.

Tony told himself to remain calm. To stay professional. He reached for the happy-go-lucky mask he'd usually put on to turn Hayden's scrutiny somewhere else, groped for his good-time-guy charm to try to make a good impression. Then he remembered Aaron's earnest voice. His friendship. The way his team had rallied around a stranger to do the right thing. To protect McGee. To make sure Tony had the time and safety to make his decisions.

The masks fell away.

"That's just the problem, sir. It shouldn't be hard to figure out who to trust. Not for me. Not for the other agents and employees at NCIS. I should have been able to trust my Team Lead to follow procedures. I should have been able to trust my Director to have the appropriate go-ahead for her operations and trust that her immediate superior," he dragged his gaze to Davenport, "had the slightest idea what she was doing. That he would have the welfare of the agents he's responsible for somewhere on his radar."

Tony turned back to General Hayden. "I don't work in intelligence, sir. NCIS is a Criminal Investigative Service, not a bunch of Spec Ops black hats. I should have been sure that my agency would obey the damned law concerning foreign operatives and classified information. And I should have been able to trust my team to have my back."

"Recently, sir, I've witnessed how a federal agency is supposed to be run. How a tight, well-run unit comprised of hugely different personalities and investigative styles can be brought together by one good leader. How that leader, even with the pressure of back-to-back cases and horrific crime scenes, can stay within the law, within procedure, and make a hell of a difference. It makes me wonder, frankly, how this agency could be so out of control – and how no one in power noticed."

The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Hayden was nodding. "Shepard picked the wrong patsy in you, Agent DiNozzo."

"I don't know about that, sir." Tony was not even slightly appeased. "If I'd left the bullpen this morning and returned to my home instead of meeting with Agent Hotchner, I'd be dead now and NCIS would be riding roughshod over the law to avenge me. Shepard would have gotten her way and Ziva would be that much closer to whatever intel she came here to access."

"But you didn't." Hayden looked behind Tony, towards the BAU team at the other end of the room. "You'd been marginalized by your co-workers, fed bad intel by your superiors, and worked to exhaustion for months. I can't say what most agents in NCIS would have done under the same circumstances, but I'm grateful you made the right decisions. The right connections within our community. That you are not the lone-wolf type that is all too prevalent these days. Men – and women – who are convinced that only they have the right combination of skills to see the truth and complete the mission."

Tony didn't turn to glare over his shoulder at Gibbs, but he wanted to. "I'm just a guy, General. It would be stupid to think I had all the answers. About anything." He shifted his weight. "Sometimes knowing the right questions is more important."

Hayden nodded. "That's been my experience, as well." The controlled expression on the general's face changed in an instant to tight-lipped fury. "That someone in my agency targeted you, that we – that I – did not have enough control to bring Trent Kort in before his assignment got so far out of control –" Hayden bit off his tirade and shook his head. "It's an embarrassment. Worse, it tells me that our own house is not in order. I believe I am going to follow your example and ask our friends at the BAU to lend a hand with vetting our long-term specialists. We've had good results working with them in the past."

"They are pretty damn insightful, sir. More than you want them to be."

"Hm." Hayden speared Tony with that cool stare again. "I cannot control what happens within NCIS, but I assure you, Agent DiNozzo, I will be keeping an eye on the fallout from this situation."

Morrow moved closer to Tony's side. "There are many changes coming down the line for NCIS, General. We will get our house in order."

Hayden's eyes narrowed. "This might be a situation where raze-and-rebuild methods are the best tactical plan." He offered his hand to Morrow. "I'm at your disposal if you need strategic support."

"Thank you, sir."

The general turned back to Tony. "Trent Kort is in custody. Rene Benoit is dead."

Tony felt the words hit him like sucker-punches. "Sir?"

"It was sanctioned. Benoit was an arms dealer, a bottom-feeder. Eliminating him will cause me no nightmares. But Kort will be … off the grid, so to speak, for the foreseeable future. You have nothing to fear from Benoit's cadre or from Kort's misplaced loyalty, Agent DiNozzo." He held out his hand and gripped Tony's. "I expect to hear good things about you, DiNozzo, whatever agency you land in." He tugged Tony a step closer. "My door is always open. Your agency has let you down – I'd suggest you don't allow that to happen again."

Hayden gathered up a pale Secretary of the Navy and headed towards the door. Davis lingered a second.

"Kort was picked up half-an-hour ago. I'd have called if I didn't know you were already on your way."

"So, I guess the emergency lockdown is over?" Tony responded, still a little dazed by Hayden's words.

"No." It was Morrow who answered. "The emergency lockdown is not because of Kort's threat. It's because of David's."

Tony turned, frowning. "Eli David has made threats?"

"Ziva David," Davis replied. "She slipped her escort and is in the wind. I heard her threaten Shepard. I'm not so sure she won't be coming after you, too. It was your testimony against Shepard that started me looking into the unmitigated disaster of having a foreign operative on an NCIS team. You and Mrs. Adams need to be protected."

The anger still singing through Tony's veins rose up in a great wave. He was beyond Morrow's reach before the man could move, let alone hold him back. Tony strode to the conference table, Reid and Morgan moving their chairs out of his way so he had a clear field. He stopped across from Gibbs and slammed his hands down on the table, leaning in. "Tell me, tell me you did not do this. That you're not hiding your precious princess away somewhere, protecting her. Tell me, Gibbs, that you're not that far gone."


	28. Chapter 28

Gibbs didn't stand. He didn't shoot up to loom over Tony or move to head-slap him. Out of the corner of his eye Tony saw Fornell put one hand on Ducky's shoulder to keep him quiet. Aaron stood, ready to move to Tony's side. The rest of the table was motionless at Tony's outburst.

"I haven't seen or talked to Ziva." Gibbs flipped his phone onto the table. "She's tried to call me a few times, but I haven't been answering."

Morgan grabbed the phone – he was already dialing his. "Garcia, check this number –" he read off Gibbs' phone number. "Trace all incoming and outgoing calls. When and where and anything that's been deleted."

Tony didn't look away from Gibbs' bland blue stare. "He doesn't know how to delete calls. If the ones recorded there weren't answered, then we need to look for other means of communication. His land-line. Email. Hell, smoke signals. Ziva could be hiding in his damned basement."

"I have not seen or talked to Ziva," Gibbs repeated evenly. One sarcastic eyebrow tipped up. "You used to trust me, DiNozzo."

"Those days are long gone, Gibbs. You're the one who put her on our team, who allowed her to handle evidence with no training and gave her access to classified files."

"I did. I could keep her safe, keep her controlled. She needed a place." Gibbs eyes turned icy. "She challenged you. You could never stomach that." He eased back in his chair, faking a calm confidence that Tony could see right through. "This your plan? Take down the people you think are in your way? Shepard. Ziva. Me."

"My God, Agent Genius was right." Tony blinked, shoving aside his treasured image of Gibbs, the mighty leader, the stand-up guy, the hero to find the ugly truth beneath. "Everything really is about you, isn't it? And the one time I try to put myself – put anyone else - before your agenda, I'm the asshole."

Aaron's hand on Tony's back steadied him. "Morgan and Garcia are on it, Tony. Agent McGee has been warned – he's going to stay at our office for now and help with the search. If David has been in contact, or is at Gibbs' home, they'll find her." 

Tony turned away from Gibbs, disgusted. He caught Janet's eye. She managed a tight smile, a hint of laughter dancing along her lips. "Don't you start with me," he warned, finger pointing. His teasing held a dangerous edge. "You will stay here behind these bulky, heavily armed SEALs until Ziva is locked down, tight. Understand?"

"Aye aye," she agreed.

Tony had one more duck to line up in a well-protected row. "Morgan. Tell Probie to talk to Abby. She's still here, right?" His heart pounded wildly out of rhythm for the two seconds it took for Morrow to answer yes. "Good. Great. She stays put."

Morgan moved the phone from his mouth. "Got it. She's in the loop with Garcia. She's okay, man."

The storm of rage and fear fled, leaving Tony feeling weightless, empty. He let Aaron maneuver him into Morgan's chair. Hovering, Aaron sat on his left, between Tony and a tight-lipped Janet Adams. Tony growled and rubbed both hands over his face and up into his hair.

"You okay to continue?" Reid asked quietly.

Tony laughed. It was either that or scream. He stared across the table at his former boss and then looked away. The others gathered around the table all seemed to be waiting for his answer. Morrow had pulled up a chair at the end, between Ducky and Gideon, but he didn't seem impatient to get things started. Ducky had lowered his gaze back to the file in his lap – Tony recognized it as a BAU file. Gideon was watching Gibbs, his lips pursed. Studying him.

Fine. If the rest of them intended to watch the Gibbs-and-Tony show, he wasn't going to stop them. "Why are you back, Gibbs? Did Shepard send for you? Did you know about the Benoit op?" He knew they'd hear the exhaustion in his voice, the despair.

"Pretty sure I don't answer to you, DiNozzo."

Before the jumble of emotions could clarify into one that would let Tony move – leave – attack – defend - Morrow spoke up from the head of the table.

"If you want any future with this agency, you will answer to me, Gibbs. And right now. Why now? After four months, why did you choose to return now?"

Gibbs wasn't too far gone to appreciate Morrow's standing. He sat straight, clearing his throat. "After the case with Paulson and Fornell, Jen – Director Shepard - told me she never filed my retirement paperwork. Said the team needed me. That I shouldn't waste my skills on a drunken beach in Mexico." His gaze grew distant. "Told me Franks might be washed up and satisfied with that, but that wasn't me. Not the Gibbs she'd known."

"And that was all it took?" Ducky placed one hand flat on the open file in his lap. "One conversation with Jennifer?" He huffed. "A conversation more than one of us tried to have with you over the course of the past four months?"

Morrow didn't spare Ducky a glance. "Mrs. Adams?"

"A week after Gibbs filed for retirement, Shepard rescinded it. Sent me a signed statement from Gibbs requesting a leave of absence. I questioned it and sent a note to IG Davis. But I had a signed statement, so I was obligated to have Gibbs' retirement package frozen and to process the paperwork."

"I never signed a statement." Gibbs was frowning, but his tone told Tony that he was searching his broken memories. Wondering if he'd done it and hadn't remembered.

"A week later?" Tony added. "No. You were still too pissed. None of us expected you back for at least a month."

Gibbs looked like he'd been slapped in the face. "You expected me back?"

"Well, yeah," Tony drawled. "We're not stupid, no matter what you think." He tugged at his jacket, frustrated. "Why do you think Ziva and Tim – and Abby to the millionth power – never accepted me as Team Lead? Flaked out on report writing, took long lunches and early weekends, gave me nothing but trouble – even in the field – and told me constantly that 'that's not the way Gibbs would do it!'?" He tried not to let the hurt show on his face but was pretty sure he was unsuccessful. "Even though you'd done a great job dismissing me and removing my power as SFA, I like to think they'd have come around and begun following my lead if they really believed you were gone for good."

"We're getting off track here." Morrow met Tony's gaze. "Yes, there is a lot to work out, but I need Gibbs to answer my questions right now. If he can't – or can't answer them to my satisfaction – this is going to be a very short conversation and I'll wish Mister Gibbs well in whatever his next career choice may be."

Tony swallowed the rebuke and threw himself back in his chair. Aaron leaned in and pressed their shoulders together in support.

Morrow pointed at Gibbs. "You're telling me that you fully intended to retire, were perfectly happy living on a Mexican beach with Mike Franks for the rest of your life?"

Gibbs' lips were pressed into a thin white line.

"And yet," Morrow continued, "after one conversation with Jennifer Shepard you changed your mind. What exactly did Shepard promise you?"

"Nothing!" Gibbs erupted. "My team back. That's all. She said DiNozzo was doing a good job, but –"

"'But.'" Tony muttered. "Perfect."

"Wait," Aaron murmured.

"But," Gibbs repeated, mowing over Tony's comments, "I was needed. That the world was still a dangerous place and that we – NCIS – had a charge to protect our military. Asked if I'd taught the younger agents everything I had." He lifted his chin, his jaw tense, eyes hard. "Asked if I'd done my best by them. By Ziva. Said she'd expected better from me when she'd put Ziva on the team."

"She never mentioned Tony's undercover assignment? The Benoit operation?"

Heat flashed across Gibbs' face, reddening his cheeks. "Not one word."

Silence fell around the group. Tony tried to swallow down his resentment. Ziva. Of course. The man had come back for Ziva once before. Shepard was clever. A born manipulator. She'd figured out Tony's insecurities, hadn't she? Knowing Gibbs for years, she'd know just how to get under his skin. Knew his weaknesses and knew how to exploit them. Gibbs came back because his Mossad princess needed him and nothing was going to be allowed to stand in his way. Not Tony, that's for sure.

"So you decided to come back because it was your duty? You felt like you were letting people down?" Fornell's questions sounded less than sincere.

Beyond Reid on Tony's right, Gideon must have agreed. He chuckled, shaking his head. 

Tony caught Ducky watching him from the end of the table and raised his eyebrows in question. Ducky tapped his index finger against his lips, advising Tony to stay quiet. First Aaron and now Ducky. What the hell was going on here? 

Tony folded his hands in his lap, fingers clutched tightly together and let the back and forth wash over him. Gibbs' answers about how he got onto the Navy Yard and up into the building without clearance. How Shepard had met him in the lobby and tucked her hand into his elbow to steer him in the right direction. How Gibbs hadn't given a thought to his clearance or what requirements there might be for an agent returning after an injury. About the team's structure – Tony's job. Yeah, Tony could have figured that out. Morrow might need to cross all the T's and dot all the I's to make sure Gibbs wasn't in on Shepard's agenda, but Tony had no doubts.

Gibbs wasn't in on the Benoit crap. There was absolutely nothing about Gibbs' behavior that had to be explained to Tony. Gibbs thought Shepard needed him. Thought Ziva needed him. No one else could do what he could – no one else could lead the team the right way. Just like General Hayden had said, Gibbs was the lone-wolf with the world on his shoulders. It wasn't his sense of duty that brought him back to NCIS – it was his deep-seated daddy complex coupled with full-blown egotism. 

Tony let his gaze slide around the table again. Morrow. Ducky. Fornell. Gibbs. Janet. Tony. A meeting of those minds made sense. Fornell was in charge of the investigation into Shepard, so the Fibbie got a free pass to the NCIS powwow. Morrow had a damaged agency to put back together and he needed an MCRT that worked. Janet had the chapter and verse on Shepard's attempts to get around the system. Tony turned to stare at Aaron, sitting on his left. Why the hell were the BAU here?

Gideon's words answered Tony's questions.

"It wasn't a conversation with Shepard that changed your mind, was it Gibbs?" Gideon leaned forward, forearms on the table, and opened his hands. "Your file, NIS, military, everything, it paints a very clear picture of your motivations." He waved one hand towards the file in Ducky's lap. "It was the thrill of the chase. Leading the charge like only you can to take down the bad guy." Gideon tilted his head and sent a piercing glare across the table at Gibbs. "You felt it. That twist in the gut, the singing along your nerves. The pride. It made you feel alive again. Just like it did all those years ago when you joined NIS. Being the hero – that's the only thing that can drown out the grief, isn't it?"

Holy shit. Tony snapped upright, hands gripping the arms of his chair. The BAU was here to profile Gibbs.

Gibbs looked Gideon up and down, clearly assessing the profiler as an inferior. "Who the hell –"

"Jason Gideon. I'm a member of the BAU." He gestured past Tony. "Aaron Hotchner, our Unit Chief. Doctor Reid. Agent Morgan is checking on the missing Mossad operative."

"She's not an operative –"

"Director Morrow asked us to take a look at the situation. He's familiar with our work. He and General Hayden have considered a reciprocity agreement where the BAU can be called in for these kinds of circumstances."

Tony couldn't help following the conversation, back and forth, back and forth, like a tennis match from hell. On one side, Gideon was calm, amused, slightly superior and unwilling to escalate in the face of Gibbs' cold fury. Gibbs had passed anger half a mile ago and was rapidly approaching Captain Ahab levels of shouting.

"'Reciprocity?' You mean they called you to stick your noses into an internal problem that could have been handled by a real leader with couple of head-slaps and a trip to the gym?"

"Physical intimidation." Reid's words were laced with his own brand of sharp dismissal. "Most men believe it should be the last resort in problem solving. Like most bullies, however, it is your first reaction."

"It has a place in most military cultures," Aaron added, piling on so that Gibbs couldn't get a word in. "Your shouting and general angry demeanor seem to be deeply rooted, though. Going back much farther than your military service."

"Shrinks?" Gibbs pushed his chair out from the table. He twisted to face Morrow. "A whole team of shrinks, Tom? You've got to be –"

"Shut up, Jethro."

Tony winced. Yeah, Gibbs needed a wake-up call. Needed somebody to pull his head out of his ass. But this? He sighed, loud and long, and rubbed at the back of his neck. Beneath the table, where no one else could see it, Aaron put one hand on Tony's arm. Another plea for Tony to wait, to have patience. To trust Aaron to do the right thing.

He'd never known Aaron to be cruel. To hold grudges. Not professionally. Even though he and Reid had made it clear that they considered Gibbs' behavior substandard, Aaron wouldn't use his friendship with Tony to drag Gibbs over the coals. To deliberately hurt the man. Tony could wait – he could give Aaron and his team time to talk. The question was, could Gibbs?

Morrow's order seemed to be all that was keeping Gibbs in his chair.

"Take a look around, Jethro." Morrow sat tall, urgency in every small movement. "This is not a joke. It's not a scenario. This situation has the attention and direction of the Secretary of Defense, the President's right-hand man. It won't be forgotten, brushed aside, or hidden under a rug. Everything that NCIS has ever done, every problem with a case, every piece of evidence thrown out of court, every paperwork snafu, every injury or death caused to a suspect in our custody – it's all coming under scrutiny. Nothing will be overlooked. Nothing. You, me, Doctor Mallard, Miss Sciuto, Mrs. Adams, Leon Vance, every employee, every aspect of our behavior and line item in our protocols and procedures – we're all in for a very long and difficult time. And before I will allow you to take one step back towards this agency, you will cooperate with me. You will do exactly as I say. And you will do it in the spirit of duty that you claimed is your entire reason for returning."

"This is not your kingdom, Gibbs. You are not the ruler of all you survey. You are not irreplaceable – no one is. There are – there should be – checks and balances built into in every level of administration." Morrow nodded. "Even mine. What Agent DiNozzo has revealed today are the symptoms of a disease. Something that has taken root at NCIS. I plan to find that root and cut it out." Morrow stopped for a breath. "Now, you either get in line to help me, or get out."

Gibbs hated ultimatums. He hated demands and commands and being placed under a microscope. Tony's fists clenched under the table, waiting for Gibbs to bolt. To throw back his chair and walk away, head held high. To put Morrow in his place.

All those possibilities drifted across Gibbs' face. Anger. Resentment. Determination. High-and-mighty stubbornness. They held Gibbs in place just long enough for Ducky to speak up.

"Jethro. I believe what Director Morrow – and what these other gentlemen – have to say will be very valuable to you. None of us knows the future, what the Secretary of Defense or the other politicians are likely to do with our agency. But, beyond that, what they are offering to share with you speaks to our earlier discussion. And, frankly, there is quite a lot to consider." He patted the file in his lap. "Much I have not been able to put together before. You see, I find myself too close to this problem. And these profilers have looked through clear eyes, unshrouded by any shared past experiences or friendships. Please. Listen to them."

Where Morrow's demands had sparked Gibbs' fighting spirit, Ducky's pleas touched something deeper. Gibbs' eyes clouded, the icy disdain melting away. "You think so, Duck?"

Ducky's eyes widened. "I truly do. And I dare say that those you've cherished the most would want you to hear them."

Tony sucked in a breath. Ducky was talking about it – about them. The taboo subject. The hurt at the center of Gibbs' world. And Gibbs was listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two more now before the finish.


	29. Chapter 29

The cloak of anger and disdain dropped from Gibbs, leaving an older, wearier, out-of-his-depth man sitting across from Tony. They watched each other; silent; intent. Tony stored up the glimpses of the real man inside his boss, visible now for just a moment before Gibbs gathered him up and hid him behind the bastard again. Gibbs seemed to be searching for something, too. Taking in the changes in Tony, the older, wiser agent he'd become while Gibbs had been gone. Or maybe Gibbs was seeing Tony clearly for the first time since Baltimore. Seeing him as a man, not just a shadowy reflection of himself.

Gibbs rubbed one hand across his mouth, the ugly mustache making a rasping sound against his calluses. "You know these people? You trust them?" he asked.

Tony heard the underlying question. Why? Why did Tony trust Aaron and his team and not Gibbs?

"They've had my back." Tony told the man across from him the truth. "Aaron is a friend, yes, but these people have listened to me. They stuck their necks out for me and for Tim today. They never once tried to intimidate me or smack me down, physically or otherwise." He unclenched his fists and flattened his hands on the table. "As soon as their team heard what I was up against, they were all in. No doubts. No put-downs about how I deserved it. Deserved disrespect and dismissal. That's all you and Tim and Ziva and Abby have done for years." Tony tilted his head, his face twisting up on one side. "Okay, Gideon is a prick, but he's also smart and insightful and I kind of hate him a little bit, but he's right most of the time." The muffled snort from the end of the table told him he'd hit his mark.

"The point is, Gibbs, they've opened my eyes to how good teams work, how our team should have worked. So, yes, I trust them."

"And all of that," Gibbs waved a hand back and forth between them, "what you said about my team – our team – not working. That's on me?"

"No. And yes," Tony replied, the last word a hiss. "Did you deliberately hold me down after you dragged me to NCIS and told me I was good? Yes. Did you make sure the Ziva and Tim had no respect for me? Yes. But I let you get away with it for too long. And no one higher than you in the chain of command ever cared."

"There's blame enough for everyone to have his own share. Or hers," Ducky added. 

"No." Beside Tony, Reid's voice was strained. Vibrating. Tony had heard that tone in the FBI garage when the young genius was intent on getting his point across. "Everyone is not to blame, Doctor Mallard."

"I only meant –"

"You only meant to wipe away personal responsibility with a meaningless statement."

Ducky paled. Tony forced himself to stay still, to say nothing. Reid was right.

"How many times have we heard it? Heard an abuser blame his wife for her own bruises? Blame a child for being too loud or too stupid or too wrong? Blame the economy, traffic, his boss, blame the drugs, the booze, stress, his lousy childhood or his own depression? Spread the blame thin enough and it won't stick – isn't that the truism?" Reid tilted forward, aggressive, his words hitting fast and low. "How a person reacts to intimidation and abuse stands outside of blame and fault. We do not blame a battered wife for staying with an abusive husband. We do not blame her for protecting her life any way she knows how. I don't know about NCIS, but I haven't been trained to blame a child for succumbing to an adult's abuse. We don't say, 'Well, you could have fought. You could have run away. You could have told someone.'" Reid was deliberately cold and scoffing, hurling his words like sharp darts straight to the others' hearts. "Is that how you've been trained? How you approach women and children – anyone who's had to bear emotional or physical abuse? Because, if so, Director Morrow should shut down this agency immediately and send every agent to the FBI for retraining. And before you say that there are no wives or children here," Reid interrupted Tony and Ducky and Gibbs' knee-jerk reactions, "it is the exact same kind of power imbalance." His long-fingered hands were flicking, gesturing, pointing. "Those in power have created – and allowed – a culture of abuse and exploitation to flourish at NCIS. And that blame is not laid on the victims, ever, but squarely on those with the power to change it."

The silence grew teeth and claws and sank in deep. Tony kept his eyes down and figured everyone else was, too. Reid may have been right, hell, he was definitely right, but no one at this table wanted to acknowledge it. Admit he'd been an abuser. Or a victim.

Again, it was Ducky who broke through. "I apologize. You are precisely correct, Doctor Reid. I'm afraid I was attempting to soothe the tension by spreading the blame where it did not belong."

"We call that psychological projection," Aaron stated. "When we blame others, or project our own faults onto others, we are attempting to distract attention from the wrongdoer. From the ones who are at fault. None of us is comfortable with self-awareness but examining the actual illegal or unethical behavior is necessary. Your attempt to shift blame, Doctor, was to protect Gibbs, maybe even protect Director Morrow. To allow them to feel better about their own faults and diminish culpability. It's not helpful," Aaron was firm, "but it is understandable."

Aaron's controlled insistence kept the table focused and calm. Kept them listening. "As Director Morrow stated, and all of us know from experience, the investigation into NCIS because of Shepard's malfeasance is likely to be far-reaching, far beyond the scope of the Benoit operation or the insertion of a Mossad operative into a high security area. If you don't want this to become a witch hunt, our advice is to get in front of the investigation. Become proactive. Put in place new protocols and regulations that will not only look good to the Inspector General and his people but will be real steps towards a better functioning agency. And," he continued, "to deal with any lingering trauma or injury. Immediately."

Tony looked up to find Gibbs shaken, the creases around his mouth like gouges. His back was pressed against the chair as if he was held there by the words swirling around him. Words like abuse. Power imbalance. Intimidation. Exploitation. He'd been compared to a child abuser. A wife beater. And even Ducky's friendship, his attempt to mitigate the blame, had been taken away from him.

"We're here to help. It might not feel like it," Gideon added, still watching Gibbs like he was under a microscope, "but we don't have much time. And an opportunity for change – for healing – is sitting right in front of us. Based on what we've seen of this team in just a few hours dealing with Agents DiNozzo and McGee, well," his sarcasm was cutting, "this behavior should have been addressed years ago."

Aaron tapped a finger on the table. "There's a method we'd like to try. It's called empathic intelligence." His tone was clear and even. Professional. Nonthreatening. An even balance for Gideon's cynicism. "It's a way to get beyond the natural denial and defensiveness that might slow us down. Doctor Mallard?"

The doctor was nodding, slow and sure. "I concur. If you wouldn't mind, Director Morrow?"

"By all means," Morrow answered, clearly relieved that somebody had a clue about how to deal with Gibbs and the MCRT.

"I am holding the profile and summary notes on a man named Philip Dowd. It is an interesting case study. One that may give us insight into our current difficulties."

Tony stilled, recognizing the name. The sniper. The LDSK who had taken Aaron and Reid hostage last year. Both men had mentioned the case to him today. He frowned. What the hell –

"You probably haven't heard of him. Not many people have." Gideon never once looked away from Gibbs' gaze, as if it was just the two of them sitting across a table, no bystanders, no gawkers. "We weren't able to interview him, not directly. It happens. In these cases, we reach out to family, to friends, to try to fill in the blanks on his life story. His childhood. And we try to find the factors that influenced his behavior."

"What kind of behavior?" Gibbs ground out between clenched teeth.

Gideon tilted his head. "Let me give you the summary of our findings. Then we'll discuss how we came into contact with Dowd." He made a face, opening his hands. "Fair?"

Gibbs didn't nod or shake his head, but he didn't look away. Tony clenched his fists in his lap. He had a bad feeling about this.

Aaron took up the story. "Dowd was raised by his father after his mother abandoned the family. He's remembered as a difficult teen, someone with a hair trigger. Incapable of admitting his own faults. He held grudges. He never had a steady girlfriend and was considered intense and moody by the people he went to school with. So far," he admitted, "not very different from a lot of young men. He joined the military. Seemed to flourish there. Came out of his shell. Within the military culture, he gained confidence, friends. Some of the people who knew him then described Dowd as handsome, charming, and quick witted. He flirted to get his way. He enjoyed learning new skills and learned them quickly. He was also a risk-taker. Impulsive. He was injured more than once because of it. Broken bones. Concussions. One bad enough to leave him unconscious for 48 hours."

Reid's hands fidgeted on the arms of his chair. Tony knew that Dowd was the first person Reid had killed. He was the unsub that had changed Reid's attitude towards his team and himself as a member of it. It had shown him what he'd be willing to do to protect others. It was Reid's insights that made this profile possible. Reid's and Aaron's. Tony wanted to reach out, to offer sympathy, but he didn't think it would be appreciated.

Across the table, Gibbs' restlessness was a close match to Reid's. He couldn't help hearing the similarities in their backgrounds – Gibbs' and Dowd's. Tony didn't like the way this was playing out, but he made himself stay quiet. While Reid might brush off Tony's sympathy with a wounded look, Gibbs would crush it into a ball and shove it down Tony's throat.

Gideon continued. "After his injury, Dowd became arrogant, believing he was good enough to bypass orders and plan his own missions. He began to blame others when anything went wrong. 'If they'd only listened to me,' was his favorite phrase. He put in for the Special Reaction Team, the military's version of SWAT. Became a sniper. And he was good at it."

"At this point, his impulsive behavior became more evident. And if others were hurt by the risks he took? Dowd didn't care. The other members of his squad described him as arrogant. Callous. Manipulative. He still flirted with women, but, if he was rejected he lashed out, verbally and physically. He was unable to maintain a stable relationship. Dowd was discharged – dishonorably – after assaulting an officer."

Tony's nerves were humming, his skin bristling as Gideon's dispassionate description went on and on. There was a steel band tightening around the back of Tony's head, Gideon's careful words like the storm massing on the horizon. The air in the conference room was thick, pressing down, filled with electricity.

"What happened next?" Gibbs had the flat affect of a man too overloaded to feel. "He snap? Go on a killing rampage?"

Gideon pressed one finger to the table in front of him. "The point is that what happened next could have been avoided. If, at this particular point in time, at the time of Dowd's greatest failure, his most profound loss – beyond his mother, beyond any fellow soldiers that didn't make it back – if someone had stepped in when Dowd was discharged, abandoned by the very family he'd made for himself – if someone had gotten Dowd the help he needed then, the rest of his story could have been radically different."

Aaron let Gideon's words sink in for a moment before continuing. "Recent studies confirm that, in many ways, we have failed and are continuing to fail our military men and women. Those who have been wounded mentally as well as physically. There are many excuses for the failure to serve these heroes – funding, geographical distance, the sheer scope of the problem. But the truth is, many sailors and Marines and soldiers leave the service to become homeless. They fail to reconnect in society. They are unable to come to terms with civilian life."

Tony heard the fierce protectiveness in Aaron's voice, anger and frustration just below the surface. He glanced over at Gibbs. The frown was still there, but Gibbs was nodding. Agreeing with Aaron's statements. Tony knew his boss was remembering his former commander, Colonel Ryan, and how the guilt and loss had locked the man's mind into a devastating loop of hallucinations and paranoia. Gibbs had gotten the colonel the help he needed, but how many others had slipped through the hands of the VA?

"Philip Dowd." Reid cleared his throat, smoothing out the tremble in his voice. "Philip Dowd displayed all of the symptoms of Anti-Social Personality Disorder. He was narcissistic and paranoid, believing that those who did not agree with him, who did not immediately admit to his superior thinking and planning, were against him. Out to destroy him."

"Quite." Ducky leaned forward. "Dowd is very nearly the poster child for ASP. For Narcissistic Personality Disorder as well. One might go down a checklist and find his name given as an example. But –"

"And mine?" Gibbs interrupted. "That's what you're all saying." His eyes were bleak, the skin around them bruised and thin. "I'm some kind of serial killer."

Reid shook his head. "Absolutely not. Even in people who have lived through the worst abuse, who lack a strong family life in childhood, who display what we call the 'homicidal triad' and have all of the markers and precursors to criminal behavior, the probability of them actually becoming offenders is less than 10 percent." He glanced towards Aaron. "Almost as many go into law enforcement."

Gibbs seemed to hear him. The muscle in his jaw unlocked. "But I've got that ASP thing." When Gideon lifted his hands as if to say, 'obviously', Gibbs' eyes narrowed. "What did Dowd do?"

The men of the BAU waited, carefully looking straight ahead. Beside Tony, Reid shifted. They were waiting for him, Tony realized. Waiting for Reid to speak. For him to be ready. Even now, Tony thought grimly, they had each other's backs.

"'Hero Syndrome,'" Reid murmured. He looked up and into Gibbs' eyes. "Philip Dowd worked in a busy downtown ER. He needed to prove to everyone around him that he was superior. He used his sniper's training to wound random strangers and then saved them when they were brought into the ER. Some died, but those deaths he blamed on others, of course. The EMTs who weren't good enough. The downtown traffic that slowed the ambulances." He lifted his chin. "The people who refused to listen to him."

"Dowd was too far gone to save," Aaron added. "He'd turned from a troubled youth to a damaged adult with just enough competency to become a danger to others. His callous disregard for others turned into deliberate cruelty, the urge to hurt people before they could threaten him, even if they had no history of threatening behavior. To maintain his superiority, Dowd encouraged others to hurt people, too. It thrilled him to watch one man hurt another, hurt his partner, someone who trusted him."

Aaron's words tore gaping holes in Tony's control. He could see the scene in front of him, Dowd holding Reid and Aaron hostage in the hospital, the feral grin on his face as Aaron kicked the shit out of his partner. Reid curled up on the floor, wondering why. In a heartbeat, it was Gibbs holding the gun. Gibbs smiling as Ziva and Tim kicked the shit out of Tony. Left him bloody. Writhing in pain. But this time it wasn't an act. His teammates weren't pulling their punches. Pretending. Giving Tony an opening to fight back.

He swallowed. Tried to blink away the image before the inevitable conclusion. Before Reid spun, Aaron's back-up gun in his hand to shoot Dowd between the eyes. Before the image changed and it was a bloody Tony on the floor shooting Gibbs.

Too late.

Tony lurched to his feet and struggled towards the door. "Need some air," he managed to say over his shoulder, waving off Aaron, Reid, Janet.

He needed time. Space. Somewhere he could think. He stumbled down the stairs and into the empty bullpen. Collapsed into his desk chair. His old desk. The haphazard piles of folders and mugs, pens and papers and electronics reared up in front of him. Snarling, Tony shoved it all away, knocking it to the floor with angry, broken grunts, his arms swinging. When his desk was clear – clean - every scrap of paper, every bit of his life trashed, Tony folded his arms and laid his head down.

Gibbs needed help. He'd needed it for years. Probably since that first coma in the Gulf, since the initial brain damage. Gibbs had woken up, passed the physicals, but Aaron was right. No one had looked further. Deeper. They'd needed Gibbs' skills, so they sent him back into the desert with his rifle. And the next time he came out his girls were dead. Trauma piled up on trauma.

The Marines, NIS, Mike Franks – they'd all failed Gibbs. Maybe Gibbs had refused treatment – brushed off a commanding officer's concerns. But those in power should have made damned sure to do right by the wounded Marine. Maybe the Marines had given Philip Dowd the choice – get help or get out. Put the choice before him like they were doing upstairs with Gibbs. 

Tony slammed his elbows on the desk and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He should forgive Gibbs. Respect him for what he'd gone through and how he'd handled it. The boss had been walking around with pain and hurt for years, like dragging around a fractured leg that had never been set properly. His stomach cramped, tight and brutal. That image he'd seen in the conference room, Gibbs grinning while Tim and Ziva kicked the shit out of him, Tony turning on his boss with a loaded weapon – it just wouldn't go away. 

Maybe it made Tony a small, bitter man, but forgiveness was going to take time. Time and change. Aaron had said that Tony should figure out what he wanted and then ask for it. If the past hour had taught Tony anything it was that he was finished being Gibbs' punching bag. That Gibbs' wounds couldn't be healed by cutting them into Tony's flesh. It was not up to Tony to take the hits so that an angry, damaged man could limp on. Step over Tony. The muzzle flashed in Tony's mind's eye. Tony and Gibbs would end up killing each other.

Whether or not Gibbs agreed to therapy, to counseling, to change, that wasn't up to Tony. Tony had his own decisions to make. He struggled out of his chair, stumbling when his legs didn't seem to want to take his weight. He tripped over the mess he'd made but left it behind. No guilt. No niggling little feeling like he should clean it up. Not today. The phone in his pocket buzzed, once. Text message. Tony snorted. He could take bets, but he'd only be taking money from himself. His pocket buzzed again. And again. More texts. More people checking up on him. Aaron. Janet. Reid. Abby. Hell, it could be Morrow for all he knew. Making sure Tony hadn't left. Hadn't wandered off before the 'here's what we're going to do' portion of the show. Get Tony to sign on the dotted line. Get on board. Get in line.

Tony hit the men's room door with his shoulder and aimed for the last sink. He turned on the faucets and let the water run. The reflection facing him stared back, almost daring him to make the obvious comparisons between him and the man he'd been yesterday. That would be too easy. The chill movement of air behind him didn't surprise him. It felt familiar, like smelling an old lover's perfume in a crowded room, or a catching a hint of his grandfather's pipe tobacco.

He smiled. "Hey, Ziva."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience, I was recharged at Revelcon this weekend! Shout out to Leslie and Cynthia. Loved talking to you two this weekend!


	30. Chapter 30

"Tony."

Ziva slid along the back wall, emerging from the shadows as if they'd given birth to her. Her hands were empty, held away from her sides, her hair caught in a long braid down her back, her clothes dark and tight. This was the Ziva he'd trailed to a hotel in Georgetown in the driving rain. The Mossad agent. Every Americanism stripped away to reveal the sleek steel beneath.

Her smile seemed as sincere as Tony's, memory sparking a light in her eyes. For a moment.

"How long have you been here?" Tony asked, shutting off the water and turning to lean against the sink.

She shrugged. "I am sure you know the answer."

"You got in right before the emergency lockdown." Of course. Even Ziva would have trouble getting through the blockade of Navy SEALs.

"I did not expect to have to wait this long." She shook her head.

"For me?" Tony snorted, mocking.

"I'd –" her lips twisted, "you know I was waiting for Gibbs."

"Your savior. He's going to be disappointed that he missed you."

"I have time," she purred, eyes half-lidded. "We have time."

Tony didn't bother trying to smother his laugh. Seeing the seductress's mask drop away and Ziva's cold eyes narrow, he held up both hands. "Sorry. Sorry," he gulped in a breath, making a looping motion with one finger. "Go ahead. I always liked the whole flirting thing better than the nasty put-downs. If I have a choice, I'll go with Selection A, please."

"You are a foolish boy," she spat. "I have never understood how anyone could take you seriously. Especially someone like Gibbs."

"You mean someone egotistical and hard-headed? Someone who doesn't know how to run a team, who doesn't understand the meaning of teamwork? Yeah," Tony snapped, "me, too."

Ziva took a step towards him. "You do not know the first thing about –"

"I'm going to have to stop you right there, Ziva." Tony straightened, his hands at his sides, ready. "I mean it. Stop moving. And stop pretending you have a clue about what it means to work on an American law enforcement team. You might be the expert on all things Mossad, but you don't belong here. Never have."

"I belong here much more than you do." Her teeth were clenched, lips pulled back like a wild animal. "Gibbs and Jenny and I would have changed this ridiculous agency into one of great power. One that might stand beside Mossad to change the world."

"One that does whatever your daddy tells it to?" Tony couldn't believe her ego. "You think our government is going to stand for that? Now who's the foolish little girl?"

She stuck out her chin. "Gibbs and Jenny have the power –"

"Oh, Ziva," Tony deflated, the truth weighing him down. "I am so sorry."

Ziva's eyes clouded. She took in his slump, the kindness in his eyes. "What –"

"I am so sorry," Tony repeated. "Sorry that you believed them. That what you saw, what Shepard and Gibbs showed you was so far outside of the truth."

She frowned, distrust written all over her face. "They have power – you will not make me believe otherways."

"Otherwise," Tony corrected her gently. "Ziva, they really don't. Not like the power your father wields." He held his thumb and finger close together. "In the grand scope of things, among the truly powerful American agencies, NCIS is a tiny little blip on the radar. If they make it to the radar at all. The FBI, the CIA, the DOD – if you'd appealed to those agencies, to those directors, you might have done a lot of damage. But, NCIS?" He tried not to laugh at her. "There is so very little NCIS can do. We investigate crimes, Ziva. Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Why has everyone forgotten what that acronym means?" Tony raised his hands and let them fall to his sides. "I don't know who explained it to you – to your father – but that is it. We protect our servicemen and women. Our ships. Our Naval Bases. It's a big job, an important job – one I'm proud to have – but that is all we do."

"You've seen it," he continued. "You've seen the big agencies plow over us, take away cases. You've seen McGee forced to hack into other agencies to wiggle out one tiny piece of information. Even the almighty name of Gibbs doesn't give poor little wallflower NCIS a ticket to the dance."

Anger displaced the confusion on Ziva's face. "That is one thing you are good at, Tony. You are a good liar. You lie to everyone, all the time." She put her hands on her hips, her words as sharp as the knives she had hidden there. "About your childhood. Your father. Poor little poo-boy," she clucked her tongue, "abandoned, alone. Your stupid sports dreams broken. Your woman and your partner betraying you." She snarled. "You pretend you are not alone – empty. Worthless."

"We're all pretending, Ziva." Tony sighed. "Jenny pretended she was the spider at the center of the web. It got her stepped on. Tim pretends his computer skills will keep evil far enough away from him that he'll never have to face it. Not like you and I and Gibbs have faced it. Abby pretends to be a little girl safe in the arms of her family. Gibbs holds onto his heroism with both hands, hoping to fill the void in his life with too many risks, risks that might reunite him with those girls he misses one last time. And you? You pretend your father cares. That he trusted you with this all-important mission to turn NCIS into his tool when you were the tool all along."

"You do not know what you speak of." Ziva's words were the low growl of a predator.

"The truth is hard. It's cold and rough and searing. It hurts, hurts much more than a lie. Lies are soft and supple, flexible, fitting every situation. Yes, I use lies. I pretend. I pretend your words, your actions don't hurt me. I pretend I understand why my team holds me in contempt. And I pretend to be indifferent to all the crap that ends up in my lap because you or Tim or Gibbs don't want to deal with it. Because the truth is small and mean and nasty." Tony shifted against the cold porcelain. "And I'm paying the price for that. For ignoring the hard, bitter truth." He swung his arms around. "We are all paying that price. So, open your eyes, Ziva. Before it's too late."

She laughed, and it echoed out from the cold tile on every side. "Do you even know what is the truth anymore after all your lies?"

"The truth is," Tony replied, slow and steady, "that you never had a chance."

That shook her. "I? I never-?"

"To infiltrate our government. To get to our most important secrets. You just can't get there through NCIS." He held up his empty hands. "We don't have them. Oh, you can get intel. Information on NCIS operations around the world. But we just don't have the access you think we do."

"But, Ari said –"

Tony closed his eyes. Ari. Out-of-control Mossad agent. Ziva's half-brother. Kate's killer. "Ari told your father that NCIS was the best target, didn't he?" He opened his eyes to see her reaction.

"He did."

"Ari hated Gibbs. Hated that Gibbs challenged him. Hurt Ari's pride." Tony was pleading now. Pleading that Ziva would see the truth. "It wasn't strategic, Ziva, it was personal."

"No." Ziva pointed at Tony. "You are wrong. Ari was troubled, but he was smart. He knew where to strike. What team to infiltrate."

"So, he came up with a way for you to get onto the MCRT."

Ziva pursed her lips, weighing her words carefully. She slipped her hands behind her back. "It was his plan to kill your partner, yes. To target the woman. To let me slip into her role as Gibbs' protected daughter. He was sure that NCIS's security could be easily subverted."

"And Ari would never lie," Tony added. 

"Not to me," Ziva spat back.

"But you lied to him. Told him you'd get him out of the country. Claimed to be on his side when you and your father had planned his death. Planned the 'sacrifice' you would be forced to make so that we'd trust you." Tony widened his eyes, willing her to hear him. "You lied, your father lied, but Ari wouldn't lie? Ziva, he learned deception from the same place you did, from his father's knee."

Ziva's lips thinned, the muscle in her jaw jumping. Tony saw the truth wash across her, leaving a trail that she couldn't un-see. She didn't want to know. She couldn't admit that her father and brother might have been lying, that she might not be as insightful as she'd always assumed.

"Where is Gibbs," she finally demanded.

Tony shifted his weight, readying himself. Ziva was out of patience and he was out of time. "Gibbs is getting his own kind of wake-up call. I'm sorry. He can't help you."

Both of Ziva's hands held knives when she pulled them from behind her back. "Then I will have to settle for you –"

"Hold it – right there."

Morgan edged inside the open men's room door, weapon aimed at Ziva's head. Tony saw her breath catch in her throat when Ziva glimpsed Morgan's reflection in the mirror behind Tony.

"Drop the knives. Now."

"I can throw it before you pull the trigger," Ziva warned. "You do not want Tony to die, do you?"

"No, ma'am. But you threaten him one more time and I will take you out." Morgan had stopped moving, staying 90 degrees to Ziva, at the edge of her peripheral vision and out of range of fists or feet. "I'm not playing. Not with a Mossad assassin."

"I do not know you," Ziva hissed, eyes on Tony.

"All you need to know is that I'm FBI and I'm holding a gun. So put the damned knives down."

Tony held Ziva's gaze, his eyebrows tipped up in an unspoken question. Did she want to die? Was she that desperate to kill Tony, to prove once and for all that she was superior, that she had all the answers that she needed? Could her hate outweigh her survival skills? He was sure she could spin a knife towards him before Morgan's bullet hit her, but it would be her last move. Morgan wasn't fooling around. He would shoot to kill.

Ziva must have heard the same thing in Morgan's tone. She sighed and opened her hands, knives clattering to the floor. She held her arms away from her sides, still staring at Tony. "I would see Agent Gibbs."

"You'll do whatever the hell I tell you," Morgan snapped. He didn't lower his weapon, didn't blink. "You got her?"

Tony pursed his lips and dragged his cuffs out from behind his back with his left hand. "Sure." Sure he did. From the glint in Ziva's half-closed eyes he knew she wasn't done. She was fast. Trained in close-order fighting. Once she maneuvered Tony between her and Morgan's gun, she'd strike. "But, hey, here's an idea. Let's do this old-school. Why don't you turn around, get on your knees, hands behind your head and interlace those quick fingers of yours."

She tilted her head. "Still you do not trust me."

He snarled. "I never trusted you. Kate died, her blood on my face. You did that. You and your homicidal family. Gibbs may have forgotten but I never did. Now do as I say. And, Morgan? Stay alert."

"Say the word," Morgan growled.

Ziva turned those pretty eyes on the BAU agent. "Is there no professional courtesy? I am a member of NCIS. A fellow agent. Can you not believe I will keep my word?"

"Lady, you just threatened a federal agent and a friend of mine. Where I come from, I should have already dropped you. Now," Morgan eased his finger to the trigger, "on your knees. Last warning."

She lunged on Morgan's last word, his shot gouging a line along her back and burying itself in the wall beyond her. Tony was ready, already moving to his left, swinging his arm to block the knife aimed for his groin, tangling it in the handcuffs. She spun away, her left hand coming in hard towards his solar plexus, a stiletto between her fingers.

Morgan's second shot didn't miss.

Blood blew from the neck wound into Tony's face – a thick spray, hot and wet, salty on his tongue. Ziva was dead before she hit the floor.

A strong arm around Tony's shoulders kept him from following her down. He heard water running, murmured words. Smelled gunpowder. Death. A dark tunnel squeezed his vision to nothing. A firm hand pressed his head down, under the flow of cool water. Tony closed his eyes, hands gripping the sink on both sides.

"I've got him. Get a team in here to clean this up. I'm not keeping him here, I don't care what IA says. They can collect my weapon when I know he's safe. Okay. Where's – no, he can't tell me right now, Hotch. This is a mess, man. Sub one. I got it. Meet you there."

Morgan's voice was low and steady, background music to Tony's meltdown. He cupped his hands under the water and scrubbed at his face. Not this time, he whispered to himself. Katie's blood had been a benediction, a blessing Tony never wanted but hesitated to wash away. Ziva's blood burned, clung to him like hot tar – he wouldn't let it touch him a moment longer.

"Okay, okay, man. It's gone. C'mon. Here." Morgan tugged at him, pulled him away from the sink and shoved a wad of paper towels into his hands. Tony gripped them tight and scrubbed, cheeks, forehead, neck, rubbed hard, willing the rough paper to take off blood and skin and bone. Morgan brushed a towel through his hair and then jerked the wet mass away and tossed it to the floor.

"Let's go."

Hallway. Elevator. Heavy metal music hit him when the doors slid apart and Tony relaxed. Abby. Abby was safe. Tim. Janet. They were all safe now.

Morgan shoved him forward into Abby's lab. Into her arms. Tony felt the tears on her cheek as she pressed against his. 

"I'm sorry, Tony. So sorry," she gasped, trembling so hard Tony could hardly hold on.

No anger. No blame. Just Abby's ragged voice chanting apologies and Morgan standing watch behind them. Strong. Sure. He'd had Tony's back. Like a teammate. Like a friend.

"It's over," Tony whispered into Abby's hair. "It's all over, Abbs." All of it, Tony thought. Ziva. Gibbs. Jenny. The team. The MCRT. NCIS. Gone. Over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning - non-canon character death.


	31. Chapter 31

Epilogue One

Tony sat on the marble steps, staring off into the distance. The plain white headstones stood up in row after row, stark against the deep green of the grass. He tilted his head back, eyes closed, relishing the warmth of the sun, urging it in deep, past the recent sores and scars, and the cold that had taken root. Late October brought the last dazzle of Indian Summer, damp, muggy air weighing him down with more than humidity, more than the promised thunderstorm that never seemed to materialize. It weighed him down with memory.

To his right, the sun was a red-orange mass behind the clouds. The fish-scale clouds told Tony that there was a change coming. Maybe tomorrow he'd awaken to the crisp cold of fall that he always looked forward to. Sweater weather. Time for football, crunchy leaves underfoot, and a little lifting of the spirit. The holidays were coming up. Time to look forward rather than backwards. 

He slid his sunglasses from his nose and stuck them in the neck of his white button-down. He'd been trying. For six weeks, he'd been trying. Setting his alarm. Getting dressed. Working cases with the team. They'd cracked the latest one earlier today. Got their confession in interrogation and sent the rapist to a cell before lunch. He should feel accomplished. Pleased with himself. With the team.

Maybe when the weather changed.

The Tomb Guard had stopped at the south side of 'the mat,' shifted his weapon, and begun his twenty-one count. Tony counted silently along with the Army Sentinel. Anticipated his turn. The shouldering of his weapon – always towards the viewing steps, between the Tomb of the Unknown, the honored dead, and any threat. Another turn, another count of twenty-one. The Sentinel's uniform was without rank insignia, making sure he never seemed more important than those interred beneath the marble. Never overshadowing those lost.

He'd waited through two changing of the guards, standing rigidly, eyes forward, until each ceremony had finished. It was the very least he could do. Those who had given their lives deserved it. Respect. Honor. And those who came to visit, anyone who listened to the unending rhythm of the Sentinel's metal heels clicking against the marble, who watched the solemnity of those who were lucky enough to guard this tomb, would never forget. 

Ever since his meeting with Aaron six weeks ago, Tony found himself at the Tomb of the Unknowns at odd moments. On his way home from work. On random Saturday mornings, fighting the sightseers. Late at night when only his federal ID got him past the lowered gates. It helped. Helped to remind him of the bigger picture. To remind him that NCIS was about more than a silver-haired bastard, more than political fall-out, and much more than the inner turmoil of a Very Special Senior Agent. It was about those curved rows of tombstones. And making sure there were fewer of them in the future.

Kate's name wasn't carved here. Her marker was further east, in the Federal Law Enforcement Memorial. And west, in Indiana, where her family kept fresh flowers on the grass. Ziva's was home, in Israel. Beneath an olive tree. At least, that's how Tony liked to think of her – resting in the dappled shadows of small leaves fluttering in a hot breeze. Tony's mom's grave was in Long Island, in an ornate mausoleum paid for with Paddington money. He lowered his head and smiled. His mom would have loved the baroque architecture, with all its drama and grandeur.

His smiled died away. Gibbs' girls were buried in Stillwater, Pennsylvania, next to his mother. 

Gibbs hadn't told him. Gibbs and Tony hadn't spoken since the conference room. Since Ziva died. Since the FBI filed charges against Jennifer Shepard. No, Tony had learned about Gibbs' family from Ducky.

After Morrow's intervention, after Ziva's death, Tony had a chance to sit down with Ducky and have a talk. Ducky had been solemn, careful with his words, as if he'd taken Reid's reprimand in the conference room to heart. He didn't talk non-stop, stream of consciousness ramblings sliding from subject to subject. He did apologize – something that Tony hadn't wanted or expected. Apologized for his own brand of tunnel-vision. For how he'd made excuses for Gibbs' behavior long before he knew about the tragedies of his life. Tony didn't blame him – he never had. Gibbs and Ducky were friends. Friends had each other's backs. But when he'd said as much to Ducky, the man had paled and gone quiet. Quieter.

"I'd like to think we were friends, as well, Anthony," Ducky had finally said.

Tony hadn't had a good answer for that. Because, they weren't. In Tony's mind, Ducky stood firmly on Gibbs' side of every argument, every disagreement. Ducky backed up Gibbs' behavior with a glint in his eye and a smile on his lips. Sure, he'd scolded Gibbs from time to time, but usually when his behavior had taken a turn from nasty to stupid. Team in-fighting – Kate's situational feminism or Ziva's threats or McGee's put-downs – were looked on as children's squabbles as each tried to please a demanding parent, not as warning signs of a nonfunctional team. Instead of helping, that conversation had left both Tony and Ducky a little more wounded. A lot more polite. Professional. Distant.

Aaron kept him in the loop. Told Tony what he could about the BAU's on-going collaboration with NCIS. For the first time, Tony had his own information pipeline. One he could trust. Trust to tell him the truth, the truth Tony needed if he was going to make the right decisions. Morgan and Reid – they'd become friends in their own rights. Tony and Reid could talk movies and books for hours. And Morgan – Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. Morgan had watched Tony's back that day in the men's room. Had been shadowing him, just in case. Just in case a threat showed up inside the perimeter. Like a Mossad assassin with a personal grudge. 

It was Gideon who had steered Gibbs to a psychiatrist at Bethesda – a former Navy Captain who had done groundbreaking studies linking head injuries with anti-social behavior. Gibbs and Gideon, award winning bastards without any inhibitions about telling the truth as each sees it, were comfortable in each other's presence. In lingering silences and sharp verbal punches. Maybe it was an age thing. Or maybe each one's arrogance nullified the other's. Tony shook his head. Two messed up guys with nothing to prove seemed to be figuring it out. Aaron said that Gideon was changing, too. Whether it would be a lasting change – for either man – was still up in the air.

Last week, Gibbs had gone up to Stillwater, just eight days shy of his return date. Morrow had granted Gibbs a Medical Leave of Absence for six weeks and set the check-in date for tomorrow. A firm date. If Gibbs missed it, if he didn't have his psych clearance by then, there was no stopping the retirement paperwork this time.

Tony took in a slow, deep breath. He still didn't know which to hope for. For his sake, for NCIS' sake, for all of those soldiers and sailors who found themselves in trouble. Tony's mind was locked around the thought, unable to let it go. Like the summer weather, he was caught, unable to move forward. At his best, Gibbs was great. Unstoppable. Ferocious in his protectiveness. And those military men and women deserved the best. But, in his heart, Tony figured Gibbs' best was a few years – a few head injuries – behind him. The world had moved on and Gibbs had stayed in one place. A place where he always knew best. Where he couldn't trust anyone but himself. NCIS didn't need that guy.

And that Gibbs didn't need the stress of trying to fit into the new NCIS.

Morrow was about ready to go back to Homeland, to leave NCIS with their new director, their new Special Agent in Charge of the DC office, and their new team structure. It was working. It was better. With the SAC to oversee the teams, nothing fell through the cracks and nobody could deal fast and loose with regulations. The agency felt lighter, more open, less tense. In most ways it was a success. Owen Granger, the new SAC, took a while to figure out. But grim and by-the-book was a welcome change from Jenny's schizophrenic direction: hands off, willfully blind to any breaches in law or protocol one minute, suddenly suiting up with the team and pretending she was a field agent another. Granger had no doubts about the scope of his power and had worked hard to show the senior agents that he had their backs. And that he wouldn't tolerate those who refused to get in line.

Tony wasn't sure he was ever going to like the man, but he respected him. And, for now, that was enough.

Morrow's attitude hadn't changed. He'd been coldly furious about Shepard's behavior and Ziva's infiltration. But he hadn't taken it out on Tony, the whistle-blower, the one who'd cracked open the slimy can of worms. The IA investigation into Ziva's death at Morgan's hand had been by-the-book straight down the line, and the great Eli David had been forced to gag on his high-handed demands for retribution. Morrow had made sure to leak the story about Ari, about Kate, Jenny, and Ziva into the right ears. General Hayden had done the rest. Daddy David was being ostracized by the international intelligence community – he didn't have the time or energy – or power - to target Morgan or Tony or anyone else.

If Tony never heard the name 'David' again in his lifetime, it would be A-Okay with him.

Three weeks ago, when Granger had been announced as SAC, Morrow had shown up at Tony's apartment. He'd handed over Granger's file – somewhat redacted – as well as a low-level summary of the new director's background. "You have a decision to make," Morrow had said. "You can't be expected to make it in a vacuum."

Tony shifted, stretching his back muscles, shaking out a cramp from his right leg. The constant tension of the past six weeks made him restless. Still uncertain with his decision. He'd agreed to take back the MCRT – a very different MCRT – for six months. To go back to work as lead investigator and senior agent. Nobody was after his promotion – nobody expected him to step down in favor of Gibbs if and when he returned. It was Tony's job if he wanted it. He huffed a laugh and shook his head. It turned out the Rota position had never been a possibility. The Special Agent in Charge there was well respected and happy. Jenny's offer had been another feint, another trick to try to keep Tony under her thumb. But, he could still transfer – seek the sunshine of the west coast. Go back to New England. Put his name into the alphabet-soup hat and see who pulled it out.

Change had run like a fire through the Navy Yard. It was the only thing keeping Tony in that seat in the bullpen. McGee was back, working alongside Cassie Yates to actually learn the SFA's job. He was on probation – Tony's probation. One fall back towards the smug, over-weening asshole that Tim had been and Tony had Morrow's permission to send the guy to Cybercrimes. Permanently. As Tony had known all along, Tim was a quick learner. Ziva's death had been the tipping point. Tim was slower to speak, eager to listen, and was working overtime on the skills he'd always scoffed at before. "Cop" skills. The kinds of skills an investigator needed.

Cassie was TAD to the team for Tony's six months. He'd requested her – she was one of the few agents he would trust to have his back in the field. Cassie had never liked Gibbs' fast-and-loose play with the law or with protocol and had transferred away from the DC office when she realized his attitude had compromised most of the teams there. She and Tony had a few come-to-Jesus meetings over old scotch – Tony's choice, and rich desserts – her weakness, at Tony's apartment. She called Tony on his shit, made him reason out a set of new rules to supplant Gibbs', and backed him up without question when anyone else was around. Sometimes the new respect, the professionalism of the bullpen felt like sandpaper against Tony's skin – rough and new and jagged. Other times it felt like a place he could call home.

Michelle Lee was – gone. Gone from the team, from NCIS, from DC. Something had surfaced in the new round of background checks for each agent at the Navy Yard. Morrow hadn't said much, just that Tony should never have been saddled with a brand-spanking new agent with no field experience as well as a Mossad Liaison when Gibbs had resigned. Tony hadn't argued. He had enough on his mind, thank you. The fourth slot on the team was still unfilled. Tony wouldn't be rushed – he'd find the right fit, the right man or woman. It would be his decision. And he had Aaron and Reid and their team to help him profile the agents who were coming out the woodwork to apply for the job.

Director Maria Ridley had been pulled from the Naval Air Station at Sigonella, Italy, hub of Mediterranean naval and air activity. In her late forties, Director Ridley had come up through the criminal investigative division, working with teams in Philadelphia and Norfolk, and spent eight years afloat before her international posting. She and her family were eager to move back to the States so that her oldest daughter could attend law school. Morrow had made sure that everyone knew her record and Ridley had made it very clear that she stood behind Granger. Far behind him. She was MTAC, high-level ops, and inter-agency cooperation, not day-to-day operations. Her first agency-wide action was to confirm that NCIS would obey the law, respect the chain of command, and earn its place back within the tight-knit federal agencies starting right the-hell now.

But change wasn't easy for everyone. Abby was struggling with the new/old lab protocols. Safety practices she'd largely ignored because of Gibbs' shrugging apathy and the former directors' fear of losing her to one of the big corporations throwing money at her year after year. But she was trying. Keeping her chin up and keeping her venting and emotional outbursts to after hours. Away from Gibbs' 'fathering,' Tony saw a new Abby blooming. An even more awesome and brilliant Abby, loosed from her eternal little-girl role. She still bowled with nuns, wore boots, and loved heavy metal, but Dr. Abby Sciuto, forensic expert, demanded respect without resorting to emotional blackmail or temper tantrums.

It was funny, but Tony had never had a problem with change. Moving on. Running to a new job, a new city, new people and places, sights and sounds. Maybe that's why he'd stayed this time. Why he'd listened to Morrow when he'd offered him the team. When every instinct was telling him to go, to march out, head held high. Because this NCIS was new. Not quite shiny, not yet broken-in. It was struggling to take shape around him just like Tony was fighting to find his place. To find himself.

"You come here a lot."

The voice didn't startle him. Didn't make him reach for the weapon on his hip. Whether it was the imaginary scent of sawdust or his well-honed survival instincts, Tony had known Gibbs was there. A few steps behind him. A few feet to his right. Gibbs wasn't threatening – not now. They'd left the head-slaps and the insults behind them.

"I do."

Gibbs didn't ask him why. Tony didn't think he'd have an answer for him if he did. Gibbs stepped down beside him, gazing off into the distance. "Peaceful," he grunted.

Tony nodded and rose. The Changing of the Guard was about to start. 

There was no crowd behind them. No spectators snapping pictures. Arlington National Cemetery had been closed for over an hour. The Commander appeared and saluted the Tomb, nodded to the two men watching in respectful silence, and approached the new Sentinel arriving from over the hill to the west. His inspection was thorough, checking the relief Sentinel's weapon, his uniform, his stance, before the two walked in perfect step to meet with the posted guard. He ordered the posted Sentinel to step off the mat and face his relief. The three saluted the Tomb and then the new Sentinel stepped onto the mat to take over the post. Quiet orders, perfect cadence, this hand-off would take place every two hours during the night; every thirty minutes while the park was open. Rain. Sleet. Snow. Hurricane. Terror attack – it didn't matter. On 9/11, when a plane crashed into the Pentagon less than two miles away, the Sentinel had guarded the Tomb. The relief guard had appeared on time. The Commander had performed his inspection. 

Tony swallowed hard. The symbolism was obvious, but, somehow, he wasn't ready for it.

He felt Gibbs' sigh. Followed the man away from the Tomb, away from the heavy silence, and out onto the lawn. The two walked for a while, Gibbs silent and Tony unwilling to start.

"I'm not coming back."

Even if Tony wasn't surprised by his decision, Gibbs' words hit hard. 

"Gonna consult," Gibbs added. "Work with Special Ops Division out in LA."

Tony almost stumbled. "You're selling the house?" 

"No. Can't do that." Gibbs shot him a glance. "Not ready for that."

"Okay." Tony breathed deep. His heart slowed from its rapid pounding. "Hey, you can actually build a boat out there and sail it."

Gibbs' grunt sounded amused. "Figured a few things out," he began. His tone was a little strained, a little uncertain.

"Yeah?" Tony prodded.

"Treated you like crap. Pretended you deserved it. That my – that anything justified it."

That Gibbs had admitted it didn't wash it all away. But it mattered. "You did," Tony agreed.

Gibbs rubbed one hand over his mouth. "Shannon would have killed me."

Something caught in Tony's throat. He coughed. "She must have been an amazing woman."

They walked for a while, both men silently gathering themselves.

"Tried to imagine you two meeting."

Tony looked over at his former boss, frowning. He sounded different. Softer. Kinder. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She'd have liked you. Brought you over. Fed you up. Picked out a better apartment than that first shit-hole you lived in."

The scene was bright in Tony's mind's eye. Red-haired Shannon. A whirlwind of competency and mothering. Gibbs smiling and pressing a kiss to her brow. Kelly – a little shy, hiding behind mom's leg.

"Don't think I ever said – I'm – I'm sorry, Gibbs. Sorry for your loss. That I never got to meet your girls."

The steel-blue eyes were watery as Gibbs nodded. "Learned something from that idiot, Gideon."

Tony gave Gibbs time, shoved his hands into his pockets. For this? Tony could wait.

"Threw myself into the grave along with my girls. Parked there. Made it damned clear to everyone they weren't welcome. Weren't good enough to come close."

Lines of an old poem flitted through Tony's consciousness.

"Three more wives. Friends," Gibbs added. "Ducky. Fornell. Nobody came up to their standard. Nobody ever could."

Tony understood. He licked dry lips but stayed quiet.

"Decided my losses," the word came out strained between clenched teeth, as if Gibbs was repeating a therapist's term, "meant I should keep my guard up. Nobody got in." He half-shrugged. "Maybe girls. Abby. Kate." He didn't add the last name that Tony knew was on the tip of his tongue. "Got inside my guard. Couldn't see them straight."

The ghost of his daughter seemed to skip through the damp grass in front of them, looking back over her shoulder. Frowning at her dad, scolding him.

Gibbs stopped, facing forward as if he could see the image Tony's mind had dredged up. "I'm not good with this stuff, DiNozzo."

"Seems like you're doing okay," Tony replied. "I hope somebody told you that Rule 6 is the dumbest rule you ever came up with."

Gibbs' features took on an anguished cast, the depth of his pain, his grief, too much for his standard 'tough bastard' exterior. "Yeah. Got that," he murmured. He turned towards Tony. "'You'll do.' I said that to you when I left."

Tony fell back a step. Took the hit straight on the chin. He hadn't been ready for that. A firm hand gripped his arm, held him in place. Gibbs was close, frowning, staring at him.

"It wasn't supposed to be an insult," Gibbs explained, slow and sincere. "A brush-off. It was supposed to be a statement about your skills, of how much faith I had in you. It was supposed to be, 'you'll do fine.' 'You'll do great.'" Gibbs smile flashed on and off. "'You'll do it your way, the DiNozzo way.' And that's a damned good thing."

"You sure?" Tony tilted his head, not quite ready to believe Gibbs' words.

Gibbs let go. "I know it's what I should have said. What I would have said if I'd been any kind of a boss. Any kind of friend. And I'm sorry I wasn't. Not to you."

Tony felt around inside his head for a come-back. He settled for a quick nod.

"You're the best investigator I've ever worked with. I'm sorry I never told you that. Or acted like it." Gibbs stuck out his hand. "I'm gonna hear great things about you, DiNozzo."

He gripped Gibbs' hand tightly. "Tony. I – I learned a lot from you, Gibbs."

"Not all bad things, I hope. And it's Jethro."

The lump in Tony's throat choked him a second. "Jethro. And, no, not all bad things."

Gibbs held on for another moment. "Good. Take care of yourself. Drop an old man a line sometime. And," his handshake tightened, "make sure you have good people to watch your six. It's the only reason I've lasted this long. I had one of the best."

Tony watched Gibbs walk away. A chill breeze bent the grass at his feet, the clouds parting to reveal the last rays of the blood-red sun as it dropped beneath the headstone-dotted horizon.

That line of poetry just wouldn't let him go. It swirled around in his head as he made his way towards his Mustang, the only car left in the parking lot.

_"The grave is a fine and private place, but none, I think, do there embrace."_


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. Thank you for reading. For commenting. For your patience and your kudos and the great conversations we've had during this process. I hope the end works for you. It's time.

Epilogue Two

"Oh, no you don't!" Tony mock-growled, chasing the wobbling toddler down the hallway towards the Hotchner's living room. Bent almost double, Tony let his arms hang low like the monster he was pretending to be, one shoulder hunched, dragging one leg behind. A few steps in front of him, Jack's laughter rang out in unbearably joyful kid-giggles as he maneuvered around the corner and straight into Aaron's outstretched arms.

"Don't worry, Jack!" Aaron swung his son around in a quick circle. "The ugly Lurch won't catch you!"

"Aww, Lurch's feelings hurt." Tony pouted while Jack kicked his feet against Aaron's ribs, the footie pajamas softening the blows. "Lurch not ugly."

Clutching his slobbery stuffed giraffe, Jack squealed, his head tucked beneath Aaron's chin, bright brown eyes watching Tony's shenanigans. He shook his head. "No 'urch," he laughed. "No cry."

"Okay, that's enough." Haley appeared next to Aaron, shaking a menacing finger at both men. "You were supposed to be reading him a story and getting him ready for bed, not working him up into a giggling frenzy."

Jack pressed his face against his father's chest, but the high-pitched laughter couldn't be smothered. 

Aaron's dramatic hang-dog expression was brilliant, but Haley had apparently seen it before. "Boys," she huffed. "Okay. How about we turn off the lights and you and Daddy and Uncle Tony can sit in front of the tree for a special story. How's that?"

Tony didn't know if she was trying to convince Jack or his Daddy, but both agreed. He quickly joined Aaron and Jack on the carpet, leaving Haley to dim the living room lights so that the twinkling white bulbs of the Christmas tree lit up Jack's sweet face, mesmerizing the little boy into quietness, two fingers in his mouth and his eyes drooping to half-mast. Christmas had been over a week ago, but Jack was still enchanted by the tree, the lights, and the decorations. And his parents didn't mind. Saying good-bye to the holidays was hard, even for grown-ups.

Especially for grown-ups.

As Aaron's low, rumbling voice wove a story out of thin-air, Tony leaned back on his elbows, sinking into the warmth. The love. The feeling of family and home.

Last weekend was New Year's Eve – the traditional ushering out of the old year – old habits, old grudges, old regrets. Old fears. For the first time he could remember, Tony had embraced the spirit of the holiday. Not with raucous partying, too much booze, and a pretty face, but with good friends – Aaron, Spence, Derek, Tim, Abby – good food, and a changed attitude. When Tony had stood to offer the toast at midnight, it had been with his eyes focused on a hopeful future and with a wealth of gratitude in his heart.

He had Aaron and Haley to thank for a lot of that.

After Gibbs left, after that dark cloud of indecision had lifted, the ghost of his former boss dissipated from the bullpen. Tony found himself more … himself. Less likely to react out of the need to be different, to set his team apart from what Gibbs' had been. He was free to be less serious, less grim. The first time he'd called Tim by a McNickname the younger man had stopped in his tracks, a Cheshire-cat grin on his face that lasted for days. When Tony approached SAC Granger with the transfer request of FBI agent Clare Seger, determined to get her on his team, Owen had grunted in approval.

"Welcome back," the SAC had stated. "I'll take care of it."

Since then, Monday nights had become standing 'Hotchner family' nights. Haley was generous, opening their home to Tony and all his awkward baggage. She had a quick mind and a truly wicked sense of humor which also helped. And little Jack – what a chip off both parents' shoulders. Blond and bright and quick like his mom, with a side of quiet sneakiness that had to come from Aaron's genes. Tony liked Jack, even loved him a little bit. That first night when Haley had plunked the toddler into Tony's lap with his favorite stuffed giraffe and a picture book while she finished dinner, Tony had flashbacks to every kid interaction he'd ever had. He'd stiffened, his hands fumbling with book and kid and stuffed animal as if he was a juggler on his first night of drunken juggling school. All Aaron had done to help was laugh until he'd cried, breathless, at Tony's panic. When Jack had turned those big brown eyes on Tony, and shoved the disgusting giraffe into his face, Tony was done. Finished. Officially wrapped around the kid's finger. And loving it.

A normal family life. A good team. Aaron Hotchner was the pin-up for the kind of man, the kind of agent Tony wanted to be. More than that, though, Aaron was a friend. Monday nights weren't about cases and profiles and the NCIS reorganization, it was about friendship – and, when Tony was tempted to cross the line, Aaron put his foot down. "Call me tomorrow, at the office," he'd say. And Tony would.

That night in October, the promised thunderstorm breaking around him, Tony had come to Aaron. After the Changing of the Guard. After Gibbs' apologies. After Jack was in bed and he and Aaron were sitting on the back deck with glasses of wine, fresh, clean air bringing the scent of fall, of dead leaves and cool nights, they'd talked. Laid out the pros and cons of Tony staying at NCIS. 

They'd argued around the pitfalls. Talked out Tony's fears. Took Director Ridley's actions apart and put them back together. Analyzed SAC Granger's history, his personality, how he'd put Agent Samson on report the first week of the re-org for failing to get a warrant. How Janet Adams had showed up with Granger outside the men's room the first time a female employee tried to pull Ziva's old stunt. Watching Agent Marie Donaldson's bright red face as she tried to explain her behavior to the SAC had been worth Tony's embarrassment. And Janet's chuckles. 

After all that, Aaron had taken the notepad out of Tony's hands and started writing. Frowning, Tony leaned in to look down at the page. Between the neat columns of 'pro' and 'con', Aaron had drawn a box right in the middle. Inside were seven names. 

Aaron  
Spence  
Derek  
Penelope  
JJ  
Haley  
Jack

"Hey," Tony had said, nudging his friend's elbow. "You gotta pick a side, buddy."

Aaron had glanced up, all smiles. "Actually, I have. So has my team." He drew an arrow from the box up to the top line of the chart, to Tony's name. "No matter which way you go, which decision you make, we'll be here. On your side."

Beside the Christmas tree, Aaron's voice grew softer. His words drifted around the sleepy toddler, one hand rubbing his son's back as the little blond head snuggled against him. "He's growing so fast," he murmured, making no move to rise, to lay his son in his bed. To let go.

Tony didn’t remember any times like this in his own childhood. But, that was okay. He was learning about being a dad. Being a leader. It had taken him awhile to find a true role model, one that wasn't perfect, wasn't a cardboard cut-out of Ozzie Nelson or Mike Brady. One that came with occasional impatience and a slightly overbearing need to make him answer his own questions. One that respected him, treated him like an equal, and made Tony want to be a better man.

Haley crouched next to her husband, leaning in for a kiss before lifting Jack from his arms. Tony and Aaron stood, silently groaning at their aches and pains. 

Haley moved close to Tony, laying one hand on his chest. He bent, blinking, accepting a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm glad you stayed," she whispered.

"Me, too," he answered.

After saying his good-byes, Tony stood beside his car in the cold January night. The sky was clear, stars sparkling. Tomorrow he would go to work, slide into his chair in the MCRT bullpen, greet his team, his partners, and try to make a difference. He'd laugh, taunt, dig in deep and search for answers. He'd demand excellence and work harder and longer than anyone to make sure they protected the innocent. Tomorrow he'd be Senior Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo.

Tonight, he'd just be Tony. And he had one more stop to make.

"It's late." Gibbs didn't turn away from the frame of the bookcase taking shape beneath his hands.

Tony smiled, hands in his coat pockets. "Not really. It just seems that way when you bury yourself in a dark basement for days."

Gibbs had returned for the holidays. Came home. Left Tony and Tim and Abby messages, inviting them to visit if they had time. Abby and Tim had rushed over, anxious to reconnect. Tony had taken the unexpected invitation at face value and waited until he was ready. Ready to face whatever Gibbs was going to tell him. Filled with warmth and peace from an evening at Aaron's he figured it was now or never.

Gibbs moved to the work bench and dusted out a couple of old, cracked mugs, pouring a finger of bourbon into each before he turned. Smiling, Tony joined him. They raised their glasses, banged them together.

"To the New Year," Tony toasted.

Gibbs nodded, something like a smile hovering around his lips. "Glad you came."

Tony tilted his head, realizing he agreed. "Me, too." It was nice, actually. Standing beside Gibbs without resentment or expectation or that familiar feeling of being not good enough.

"How's the team?"

Tony snorted. "I'm sure Tim gave you an earful. But, honestly? They're great. We're great. Learning. Growing. Figuring it out." He sighed. "I'm not sure you'd recognize NCIS. Did you hear? They finally changed out the orange for a nice pale taupe. Very calming."

"Well, damn." Gibbs feigned shock. "It really is a new era."

"And how's the consulting," Tony asked. He'd heard some things. Good things. Gibbs was a resource NCIS couldn't bear to part with. But he had no real standing, no credentials. His experience was being used to analyze data, to strategize large operations. Not to go into the field with a mission and a weapon.

"Good. Frustrating." He grimaced. "Kinda relaxing, if I'm honest. I forgot how much I liked the water."

Tony pointed at the man's face. "I see you got rid of that fuzzy caterpillar." He stepped back to take in Gibbs' tanned skin, the easy way he stood, the lightness in his eyes. "You look good. West coast agreeing with you, then?"

Gibbs seemed to be taking the same stock of Tony. "Got me out of my rut. Out into the sun." "And, you?" he frowned, concerned. Maybe a little worried. "Are you still hanging out in cemeteries, Tony?"

"Is that why you came back? To check on me?" Tony's hand tightened around his mug.

"To check on my friend, Tony, yes. Not on SSA DiNozzo. Him, I'm not worried about." Gibbs hesitated. "I told you. You'll do great. And you have."

Tony felt the tension in his chest ease. Oh. Well. "I'm - no. I gave up on the cemetery thing."

"Good."

"And you?"

A half-smile lingered. "Working on it."

Tony touched their mugs together one more time. "That's a good answer."

They stood in easy silence, the pains and losses and injuries of the past soothed by time and distance. By a little forgiveness and the memory of a fleeting friendship. Tony finished his drink and set down his mug. Gibbs words caught him just as he was moving towards the stairs.

"You should come on out to visit. My pop's thinking of coming to live out there. I'd like to introduce you."

"I'd like that." Tony faced his old boss, his old nemesis. His newish friend. "Semper Fi, Jethro," he added. One last time.

Gibbs straightened, swallowing hard. "Thank you."

Tony didn't ask 'why,' or 'for what.' "Any time," he answered.


End file.
